An Occasional Elegy for Milk

Weaning my daughter felt
like breaking up with her.
We were intimate, once,
in both of our recent pasts;
now we are just friends.

Sometimes she reminds me
of our old relationship,
that my breasts once
belonged to her. We lie down,
resting on the floor; my girl

stretches across my body and points

to my collarbone. “Muh,” she says
with certainty, nodding her head. Milk.
Yes. I remember, too.