Melktert, Daisy de Melker

Daisies tied over anthills

squirm for last milk.

Melk. The white in-between

smooth as the plane from

skin to bone. The crust of

Great Granny’s cuticles,

Typewriter ribbon and tennis

biscuits or pecan pie instead.

The things we save for later,

down down the rock walls

of our throats with a gasp.

All the things we are not guilty of

poisoning, all the things that are

not pretty to see.

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