Grail

A McDonald’s take-out bag has hurled its guts,

strewing its contents like the innards of a squashed rabbit

across the sidewalk. Its wadded paper organs mingle 
with scattered fries and condiment packets.  
When we were young, my brother and I,
having finished our Happy Meals and already bored 
with the apathetic prizes that came inside

would squeeze all those little bladders flat,
mixing their contents together in a paper cup:
mustard, mayonnaise, "fancy" ketchup, 
stirring in a splash of cola, plopping in the pickles plucked 
from our flaccid cheeseburgers. Then, giggling like mad scientists, 
we’d dare one another to swallow the concoction. 
 I would give anything to sample one of those noxious cocktails again,

just so I could watch my brother break into paroxysms of hilarity, 
so I could once again listen to him cackle 
at the way my face contorted with disgust,
even as I declared the stuff delicious.

I'm certain that a single taste 
would transport me back to my childhood

more efficiently than a nibble of Proustian pastry ever could. 
Although I'm not sure I could bring myself 
to actually swallow the questionable digestif,
nostalgia goads me to revisit that moment
where nausea gives way to anticipation
as I smack my lips and pass my brother the chalice.