Butter doesn’t mix with milk,
I discovered by age four.
Yellow beads suspended in opalescent liquid were
Nana’s solution for sore throat.
What a vile taste.

Poured into an insulated mug
with a basket weave of grasses
under an outer layer of clear plastic.
The outer and inner layer didn’t mix any better than
butter with milk.

Must every cure taste worse than its ailment?
Greasy cod liver oil for soft bones,
Thick, bitter syrup versus cough.

Tradition overwhelms taste,
and sometimes even overwhelms science.

This is my poem for the Poetry Thursday theme of body. I’m not too wild about this poem, but it was the first body theme on which I could force out more than three lines.