Milk

Milk

My favorite scent has always been milk–

Rubbed on my body every morning like silk–

Desperate, longing for the taste of breastmilk–

Hungry for mother, expressed mild.

It’s reminiscent of innocence and infanthood–

Yet denied from me like bitter fruitwood–

A slipping chance to reclaim girlhood–

Begging simply as a girl would.

Its status as liquid gives it the right of renewal–

It transcends the walls between us, ambisexual–

If water is baptism, then can milk be the cure–

Of mother never meeting a carrefour.

Giving the gift of nativity–

Oh, mother's greatest timpani.