Content Warning: infant death
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 out
like I showed her
when 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 said
when her daughter was here,
her warm, sleepy cheek
against her mother’s breasts
while we hand-
expressed
milk
into her tiny mouth.
As I’m leaving,
she fingers the red threads
of an Elmo doll
lying on the coffee table
among baby pictures
and glasses of water.
I tell her I remember
that her daughter loved Elmo.
She asks if I would like a sandwich.
She says, We have so much food.
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