Solstice, and: Milk

Solstice

My mother was bornon the first day of summer, 1948.Her mother labored alone.Ivy flared against the windowshot through with lemon light.That night, the moon was fullas it is tonight. In the waiting room,her father sat in his gray clothesholding his son, Raphael,the angel. When the moon droppedand split the sky, the nurse let them in.My mother's eyes were root black,still adjusting to the light.Raphael named her Black-Eyed Susan.This was the beginning. Later,the steady unraveling of a family—the way a girl's hair unbraids in her sleep,end of summer, her pillow damp.Tonight I'm not interestedin that story. My hair is down.Summer's just begun. I wantonly this: to see my mother born.

Milk

We sit on the bed.She lifts her shirt,skin ashen and damp,stomach concave.She hasn't eaten in days.But there's milk.She squeezes it outlike I showed herwhen her daughter was alive.Fat, glistening drops.Am I doing it right? she asks.If milk is coming out,you're doing it right.It's what I saidwhen her daughter was here,her warm, sleepy cheekagainst her mother's breastswhile we handexpressedmilkinto her tiny mouth.As I'm leaving,she fingers the redthreadsof an Elmo dolllying on the coffee tableamong baby picturesand glasses of water.I tell her I rememberthat her daughter loved Elmo.She asks if I would like a sandwich.She says, We have so much food.