Sweet Enough
Her father marks the Gallo
hidden in the corner cupboard,
doling out sips of Cold Duck on New Years Eve,
hours before midnight.
She eats stashes of candy instead,
handfuls of graduation cake,
and thin brownie edges.
“It’s all sucrose,” a friend tells her,
as he drinks beakers of bourbon in lieu of pie.
When she pokes her finger in the sugar
her father makes her eat the bowl, so
she dumps spoonful after spoonful
in her iced tea and wonders why
it never tastes sweet.
“It’s saturated,” her father explains,
soaked, impregnated, and pure.
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