Afterbirth: crying over spilt milk

When each of us is stuck to the other
with a mortar of sweat sweet milk and the sun setting into our evening
my hair already tangled up knotted in the hot hours
amidst heaped pillows
I discover I have had enough of the cut
and jab of your kneading fingers

As I stoop to nibble
whimsy tarts herself up as a cocktail waitress
turns the half moon into a wedge of lime sucked to shreds
brings me the idea of fingernails in wine to tell the future
all your moons pared down to the tang of tannins
the flick of keratin against the crystalline ring of whimsy laughing
at the crook of my back at the let down
of hours in the same soft pose

And as I wonder what the soft shreds
sifted into the empty bowl of my belly would say
whimsy sasses suggests that I might as well try
scrying the spilt milk
the fat drops
that fall on your belly your back
before they soak in