We waited, shaking,
newspapers under the chairs
we sat on in case we vomited
as the Grand Poobah--
our Father--
approached with a tablespoon,
filled to the brim
with the smelly oil,
aimed for our terrified gullets.
It was the cure of our generation.
Should any child manifest
the slightest stomach ill,
down came the dark, brown bottle
with the yellow label,
maybe skull bones on it,
given without hesitation,
the cure for all gastronomic pain.
My brother and I
faced each other,
began to spit on the floor,
pleaded with our Dad
we were too sick
to imbibe the ghastly brew,
like drinking Quaker Oil
we cried.
To no avail,
avail did not exist.
But the cries elicited some mercy.
Mixed into orange juice
or orange soda.
"Drink it down fast boys.
It will heal you quicker,
not taste so bad.”
It took me years to drink
a Big Orange, quaff
the golden elixir of Florida,
suck on a Navel.
Even after castor oil
proved worthless,
the mere mention
causes a shudder
in my soul.
Originally Published in Terror House Magazine