After She Milks It, What

she leans over the shaft, like the tall tree's, a slow rhythm like neolithic times, hands strong, knowing, Her husband of course trusts her. milk streams down the shaft, like the spilling of moons, a quiet rebellion of the heavyness that he just felt, against the weight of all that came before. there's no lovey dovey romance here, just the work, sweat, and muscle. but she smiles—a sly thing— as if she's holding the secret to every star that she ever burned out. pleasure comes in spurts, a pull and a gasp, then nothing, empty as the head that spilled it. and when her womb is full and the night collapses in upon itself, she sits back, watching the puddle grow, like she owes him just a little something, more.