• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 02
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The Milk Room

Chloe Stopa-Hunt

We gather things
In the milk room:
Glass eyes,
Bones seamed with
Light, the boards
Where poets
Made their beds
In colder years.

These sad things,
And the requiem
You’re writing,
Form the basis
Of our permanent
Collection:
All white-drowned,
All milk-lulled.

Taking them from
You is a kindness.
We bring them
To this pure place,
Where sorrows
Gain flesh,
Stretch out arms,
Become children.

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