58 Milk There’s milk in me I do not see. It ripens in little stills, it sleeps in its body of bone, it waits for its host mouth to call it out—into thread tethering body to freshet, to river moving through itself to river, to oceans giving their skins up into rain. I cannot taste it but sometimes I lick her tears, my little ocean spinning river into blood. It is a heat in me, becoming me— this giving. ...