Mother’s Milk
Divine cream
Every morning I wake before the sun rises, Calloused hands define my hard labour. Exhausted, I stand, a family to feed, I struggle to make the next dollar. In the armchair, she sits, gently nursing our son, Content, suckling her divine cream. A sigh breaks his latch, in his cot he sleeps, His frothy smile brings a tear that falls on her shoulder. Her breasts, they heave, milky pearls at their peaks, I long to drink her ma...
