The Milkman's Hands


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.

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