Milk
by Fiona Tinwei Lam
[ poetry - february 08 ]
My child was a small, sweaty cannibal.
Tendon and muscle liquefied
at the pull of his call.
The tiny machine of his mouth
nibbled and sucked the hours
through my hundred siphons.
One night a hot boulder swelled
in one breast, the veins stiffly blue.
I lay shuddering on the bed
until I could rise.
I found a candle. Lit it. Assembled
a needle from a hotel sewing kit,
alcohol, cotton, hot cloth.
Read and re-read paragraphs
in a text on nursing.
I held my nipple to the light,
led the needle through the flame,
then to the spot.
Gently, I probed the blockage,
and squeezed the swelling down.
Another foraging, a push,
until a delicate arc of white
sprayed across the bed.
Even now, my child wants it.
For over two years I gave it
through twilight and ache.
He gropes through my shirt
to anchor his comfort
in the sweet white blood
of all I can be.
