We swallowed anger with the milk puddings.

With peas and chops and mint sauce. With silverbeet

             cooked on the back of the stove

      until the water evaporates and the edges burn.
        Put some butter on it, you won’t even taste it!
Resentment in the mayonnaise made from condensed

milk and malt vinegar. And I dream of the Skipping Girl,

               neon rope spinning, mustn’t stop.

         Not for a single moment, always smiling.
             Even at night when everyone sleeps.
                   One teaspoon of sugar.

                         Plenty in a large

                  metal dish of rice and milk

                      for a family of eight. 
            A recipe handed down from my Grandma.
     Then Dad walks in with a brown box damp

       with ice creams. Handing them out

          like Father Christmas.

            Washing his down later with Mylanta.