By Bennet Mariya
The dawn's paw
unfurls in the alley,
I recall the milkman's
hands,
their veined maps,
as if charted by some restless sea.
He, who would leave
the bottles on our porch
like offerings to a household god.
I remember only the hands,
their slow crawl up the banister
as he'd take the stairs,
mounting into a metaphor I want to forget.
Summer's heat would thicken
the air, and I'd watch, transfixed,
as his fingers left prints on
the glass, like a language only
he could read.
The milk would curdle, its skin
a membrane between us, as if
to contain what he'd done.
Even now,
when I pour milk
into my coffee,
I see those
hands, their bruised geography,
and my silence dying in it.