I drank from the cup you left on the sill— Cold and pale, steeped in ache. No sugar, no tea, Just the taste of goodbye In the porcelain’s quiet break. You fed me stories soaked in ash, Swaddled my ribs in mourning thread. Told me that love Was just loss you agreed to, And comfort was borrowed from the dead. My mouth learned silence before speech, My throat learned salt before sound. I was raised on griefmilk, Sipped slow in the dark, From a bottle that couldn’t be found. Griefmilk in my marrow, Griefmilk on my tongue. You left the light on, But I never came home. Griefmilk in the hollows, Where lullabies decay— It stains every dream I try to wash away. I found the nightgown you died in. It still smells like damp and rose. I stitched it into my pillowcase, And now I never doze. Griefmilk in the kettle, Boiling soft and slow. I drink it when the moon forgets Where the sleeping go. Griefmilk in the body, Griefmilk in the bone— It curdled into music And left me alone.
