All I saw my mother drink
for years. In the diner, served
with a striped straw and shredded
paper beanie or sometimes
at Stop & Shop just before checkout,
its perfect plastic body pulled from
the squat fridge that sits underneath
the conveyor belt—but most often
sipped from a silver can on the porch.
She never asked for ice. Never dared
to dilute the fizzy pollution of artificial
sweeteners. The first time I tried it
I thought it tasted like a backhanded
compliment, surprisingly good,
the dark dizzying lake like a cactus
burped Splenda into my mouth.
The flavor so far from milk or juice,
like a fresh-squeezed robot, a supermodel’s
saliva. My sister and I sat around her
like the students of Socrates and watched her
succumb to the only sweetness she ever allowed
herself. A true mother, listening
to the questions it spat into the air,
voice lifted at the end of every swallowed
sentence. Let’s play the quiet game?
she suggested on long car trips
to Hershey or to one of Kate’s soccer
tournaments and only then could we all hear it
whisper to her from the cup holder
as a speed bump puddled the lid
and she brought the spill to her lips.