Milk

Milk, I've come to talk to you.
Who are you inside my fridge,
in the thin light of the opened door
faint on feet on the kitchen door?

Milk, you are the word in the mind.
But pale in the fridge light
and still wobbling a little
as my hand steadies the door

you are real, white in your bottle
unpacked from a yellow bag.
And I want to know you. In that
translucent one-liter plastic. There.

Milk are you steaming herds,
early morning and the workers
pulling you hot from the udder,
pleasure of the breast, mother

milk, soft feel of nipple warm
on tongue, satisfaction in the throat
of life, I take you into me.
Food in the belly and sleep.

But aren't you profits for companies,
meat bred for the stock exchange?
And what about the male calves,
the veal cutlets, the calf-skin gloves,

the knife in the throat,
electric scream of pain,
goad at the slaughterhouse gate?
Land grazed where no grain grows

and the workers up in the dark,
children driving cattle down
to the sheds while the farmer sleeps?
Why don't you answer me, milk?

Mother of foods, milk
of human kindness,
long white lines
on the supermarket shelves.

And here you are now
in your cool place in the door
and I am a fool, talking to the milk.

But I talk to
the word in the mind.
"I know who you are.
I made you. You make me.