Ghost Song

Three times on Saturday
I remember you
as dead,
mother.

I reach under
my shirt
surprised
to find
the nipple dry,

surprised to forget
there's something
left of you
an orange I section
in the sun
and hand to my
daughter.

The fight this morning
to part evenly
her hair.

Ghost milk
again on the nipple
as I make
the bed.

Bitters drained
from eggplant
black liquid
through a colander.

Bedtime is classic
matricide.

She touches
my nipple
through
pajama shirt
and sings
as Sappho
to her beloved:
"I like your beauty, beauty."