Milk

by Jennifer Dziura

Imagine the whole sky pouring down milk. Every neighborhood is washed in white, bathed in a clean dairy smell. The milk laps up against a house and a man steps out, lowers his lips to the cool white and comes up joyous. “It’s two percent!” he shouts.

Everyone hurries outdoors, wading in the milk. They pour boxes of cereal into the vast viscous lake, bending down to capture Cocoa Krispies in their snapping mouths. A young girl breaststrokes after Froot Loops; her tiny pink tongue spears their centers. A man with a long white beard has even brought strawberries; he lifts to his hidden lips handfuls of Cheerios and fruit. A teenager in a red one-piece swimsuit happily lolls in a six foot wide circle of Special K. Worried about sogginess, her parents anxiously scoop up handfuls of cornflakes. Two sleepy-eyed women bearing spoons dump out a box of granola and are disappointed when it all sinks.

Soon the residents of at least one neighborhood begin to notice the milk’s sharp, spiced tinge, due to an excess of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. One neighbor turns to another and says “Your daughter’s Count Frankenberry is turning all the milk pink!” A child who had been happily wriggling tries to open his eyes undermilk and comes up complaining of the shredded wheat. A prim lady shouts across the street “You shouldn’t pour more cereal than you’re going to eat! I have no interest in your Apple Jacks, young man!” A lounging youth in an innertube kicks at castaway Honeycomb.

The milk, heated by sunshine and bodies, reaches a gentle lukewarm. It comes to smell like mildew. The youth in the innertube paddles towards his parents’ house. He puts the rubber ring under one arm and tries to slip through the doorway without admitting the acrid milk. All the remaining adults have finished breakfast and the novelty of the milk flood has worn off. The children want to play longer, but their mothers drag them inside. “You never liked milk before,” they say. “What’s so special about it now?” They promise the children Coca-Cola and soon everyone is inside.

In living rooms and kitchens, many ignore the milk. An eighth grader writes a poem called “Dairy Deluge.” “The milk,” she writes, “traps me in its oily, slippery slime.” Her father is in his office, contacting his friends about going into the cheese business. Over the television comes a serious report — dairy farmers are committing suicide in herds. In an upstairs room, a grandmother looks out her window at Lucky Charms floating by forgotten. She waits for the world to curdle.

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