Sour Milk

Sister Agatha by Eric Ashford

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Sour Milk

Sister Agatha was a bitch,
we all feared her
the kind of fear that is the taste
of sour milk.
How it lingers in you
as you take your daily milk
in the convent playground.

I had a new friend-
Jenny, I knew her as Jenny.
Six years old. One step beside me
always chattering away-
a sparrow singing by my hand.

The nuns could not abide sparrows
or anything
as nourishing as new milk.
They kept their milk creaking
held tightly to their bound breasts
as sour as sin.

They separated us.
We did not guess
it was that dark triangle,
of their own milky visions
that drove them sourely to part us,
to watch us
as if we were small pink bombs.

As inevitable as morning dew
two sparrows would sometimes meet
stealing time like crumbs.
Our heads close together
as we whispered.

Soon they found us
they brought us to the caning room
of that bride of Christ
who lashed bottoms in her dreams
as if churning milk.

We did not cry much.
Jenny may have exploded inside
as I did
as we bent over to receive
the prayers of that demented witch
but we kept a secret with us
like milk in our hearts:
the simple truth that
Agatha was indeed a bitch.