journal

milk

 

this morning i woke
to milk down my side
soaking my shirt
and the sheets,
sticking his hair to his cheek.
we rose, we dressed,
cooked oats in milk,
wiped tears,
wiped milk from cheeks.

the building has
aching bones,
mossy elbows,
ting-tang tin roofing
that rattles in the storm.
the shared hall smells
like old wood,
mold so sweet
and thick
that I feel like I am
underwater.

the second day of rain
is always sweeter than the first.

sometimes
the clouds in your head open wide
and everything is an unmistakable
kind of clean air clear.
you can hear music
on your skin
and taste the words
that you swallow.
and you know that
nothing comes after
and nothing comes before.

everything
simply
is.