Milk

Milk When I learned your mother hadn’t breastfed you, I wanted to do it. Having no milk, we would have to imagine it. “It tastes like moonlight,” I would say, feeling the silent warmth empty from my breast, a grown man suckling that long denied nourishment, a homecoming.   [Meet the Moon | Christian Schloe]

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To The Top

My mother always told me when I came out of the womb I tried to emerge upside down and ass-end first. Posterior, facing the wrong way up and Frank breech, like a folding chair or a backwards diver in pike position dropping out of the safe water and into the high, bright world. Once they […]

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