Milk

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i planted

a fistful

of

threadlike tresses

split ends and swan songs

and in this

bone orchard

may they sprout

an

obedient daughter

from the womb of an earth

soiled saffron

a proper

daughter.

when your lips press against her cheek

what will she taste like –

blackberry flavored with copper

some salt,

perhaps,

from the oceans I have carried

within eyes that could never be

the right shade of brown

she will have drunk

the milk of my suffering

i wonder then,

will you scratch

clean its blackened

residue

from her chin, her mouth

her everywhere;

ten years of

salem witch trials, convictions

executions;

as swiftly as you unmade me –

will you notice

the lump

on her left breast –

the cancer

of four-post pillage

that ate my spirit whole

no

you will dress her up

and send her back

to the man who will play

mandolin

with your hand-me-down

every night as you

sip your chai and

listen to Gulzar’s poetry

and other pretty things

on the radio.

i will have stolen her voice

so you will not

hear of

his tone-deaf odyssey

silence will replace

slaughter

so prop your feet up,

and still your heart,

mother

your work here is done.

‘a few witches burning gets a little toasty here

i gotta find, find, find

why you always go, when the wind blows’

Tori Amos, ‘God’