Milk

Rebecca Lu Kiernan

The pregnant peach moon
spurts down my
elbows and chin

stars are equidistant
blinking in unison,

I can see their wires.

I razor off
fraying edges of
a perfect
van Gogh-suicide-indigo
night
and hide the threads
in my pillow,

giggles will
be crushed there
sweet as blueberries
in whipping cream.

I will kneel over him
and when his mouth
opens for my breast
I will sprinkle his tongue

making the night
stick to him

in ways that cannot be
washed mistaken denied.