TO BRING MILK ANYWAY

by KERRI FRENCH

 

It seemed cruel of the body

to bring milk anyway,

having been told the baby

 

may not survive.

But still, my breasts grew

heavy from the cries of children

 

not my own. What use

do we have for the stars on nights

the ocean can’t be heard?

 

For a few hours, I let the milk

gather beneath my shirt

as I sat by the window, the sky

 

a ledge from which I imagined

others jumped.