They have known since they
were small how to milk the
goats that wait and bleat
like newborn babies in the field.
She has known since she
was small what memories
would be hers to keep—
and what within those practiced
motions would be most like
justice to the martyrs—
“Give me, Lord, my milk,”
she sings,
“and see me striving after thee,
the Way to life, soul’s bread,
mind’s meat,
spirit’s milk,
great God, the milk! the milk!”
Arriving now in ambiguity, the
ageing pages of their wormwood—
“We rise unworriedly to meet
our fate; life’s brief winter pass, we
enter heaven’s milder months,
and drink!—
milk atop our cupboards, books
and closets,
milk within our minds and hearts,
milk between our toes, our hair,
milk around and inward,
milk beneath and outward!
milk, our river’s passage,
milk, our souls’ translation,
milk, our bodies’ last baptism—
The milk, my Lord! The milk! The milk!
The milk!”

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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