Intergalactic Junket

Junkets my mother made would float in space
Like flying saucers, which were all the rage
At that time. They would settle into place
On the kitchen table so a kid my age
Could listen to them hum and watch them glow
Before they disappeared without a trace
Into the chasm of a childish face,
A throat whose flattered gullet felt the flow.

Sprinkled with nutmeg from beyond the stars
The junket sat there tremulous in its plate
And yet unmoving. Visiting milk bars
When I was still too young to stay out late,
I had seen sundaes more superb than this,
But not with the divine tranquillity
My mother’s junkets had. It seemed to me
Their purity defied analysis.

Just once she made the junket pink, but I,
Craving vanilla, frowned at cochineal.
It went down fluently enough, but why
Fool with a classic product? Keep it real.
My eyes must have conveyed my faint disgust.
The visitant went back to being white
As if it had absorbed the years of light
It conquered spinning through the cosmic dust.

I grew up, ate the sundae any time
I felt like it, and never missed the bland
Sweet smoothness of the junket. Now I climb
Downstairs to see it coming in to land
There on the table as it used to do
So long ago, back when my life began.
I found it difficult to be a man.
This last feast seems more simple and more true.