WILD
MILK
Copyright © 2018 by Sabrina Orah Mark
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Earlier versions of some of these stories first appeared in:
American Short Fiction, The Believer, The Bennington Review, Black Warrior Review, BODY, Catapult, The Collagist, Gulf Coast, jubilat, Lana Turner: A Journal of Poetry & Opinion, Tin House, Poets.org, and in the anthologies My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: Forty New Fairy Tales (Penguin), The New Census: An Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry (Rescue Press), and Poets on Teaching: A Sourcebook (University of Iowa Press).
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9973666-8-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-9489800-0-5
Art on cover © Li Shan Chong, 2018
“Portrait of Lily Jane Fools”
Used by kind permission of the artist
The publisher wishes to thank Robin Tripp
Design and composition by Danielle Dutton
Printed on permanent, durable, acid-free recycled paper in the United States of America
Dorothy, a publishing project
St. Louis, MO
DOROTHYPROJECT.COM
WILD
MILK
SABRINA ORAH MARK
DOROTHY, A PUBLISHING PROJECT
for Noah Juniper and Eli Winter
my moon and my sun
“Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you
I’ll be myself in the end.”
Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable
STORIES
WILD MILK
TWEET
CLAY
MY BROTHER GARY MADE A MOVIE & THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED
EVERYTHING WAS BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURT
MOTHER AT THE DENTIST
FOR THE SAFETY OF OUR COUNTRY
SISTER
SPELLS
THE VERY NERVOUS FAMILY
POOL
THE ROSTER
THE TAXMEN
TWO JOKES WALK INTO A BAR
THE MAID, THE MOTHER, THE SNAIL & I
ARE YOU MY MOTHER?
THE STEPMOTHER
THE STICK FIGURE FAMILY
FATHER
I DID NOT EAT THE CHILD
LET’S DO THIS ONCE MORE, BUT THIS TIME WITH FEELING
THE SEVENTH WIFE
THERE’S A HOLE IN THE BUCKET
DON’T JUST DO SOMETHING, STAND THERE!
WILD MILK
On the first day of Live Oak Daycare, all the children are given shovels and a small bag of dirt. “We encourage the children—even the babies, especially the babies—to work hard, imaginatively.” Miss Birdy, my son’s teacher, winks. She sits my baby boy in the middle of the floor with his shovel and dirt. He is not even a year old. I look around. The babies are happy. I have never seen such happy babies. Chewing on their shovels. Spreading around their dirt. Miss Birdy gives me a hug. I wave goodbye to my boy, but he doesn’t see me. “Go, go,” says Miss Birdy. “He’s in good hands.” She shows me her hands. They remind me, for some reason, of my hands.
Three hours later, I come to pick up my boy. He is wearing a bright orange poncho that does not belong to him. He crawls toward me, like a searchlight.
“Your child,” says Miss Birdy, “is a phenomenon.” I blush. “Oh, thank you. We too think he is very special,” I say. I want to ask about the poncho, but Miss Birdy goes on. “I mean, your child is a mana mana,” says Miss Birdy. “What I mean to say is that your child is a real man.” Miss Birdy softly pinches her tongue and pulls off a long white hair. “Oh, that’s better,” she says. “I mean, a ma.” She makes little, tiny spits. “I mean, a no one. Your child,” says Miss Birdy, “is a real no one. No, no. That’s not it either.” Miss Birdy smoothes her stiff cotton skirt. It’s pink with tiny red cherries on it. “What I mean to say, most of all,” says Miss Birdy, “is that I love not being dead.” “Me too,” I say. “Oh, good!” says Miss Birdy. “Here’s his bottle. He drank all his milk and then cried and cried and cried for more.”
In the hallway, I pass a mother covered in daughters. I count five. I hold up my bundled son, like a form of identification. Like he will provide me safe passage across the border. “No daughters?” she asks. “No,” I say. “No daughters.” “How come?” she asks. She seems to be blaming me, unfairly. “By the time they arrived,” I explain, “the daughters had turned.” “Rotten?” she asks. “Not exactly rotten but gigantic.” I hand her my boy so I can spread my arms wide. To show her how big. I take my boy back. “Gigantic,” I repeat. “And mealy. I sent the whole bin back. The whole bin of daughters back. The brave thing would’ve been to keep them, I know, but they seemed so impossible to name.” The mother nods. She still seems to disapprove, but before I can be certain her daughters lift her up, hungrily, and carry her away.
The strange thing about being a mother is how often I’m interrupted. Like something is happening and then something else is happening. It is difficult to get a good grasp on things.
The next day Miss Birdy is peeling vegetables. The babies are watching, transfixed. I have come early to pick up my boy, but I don’t see my boy. Miss Birdy points to a child the color of chicken broth. “Yours?” she asks. “Definitely not mine,” I say. She points to another and another, as if I lost my ticket for the coat check. I don’t see my boy. It is becoming difficult to breathe and I am suddenly freezing cold. The floor opens up beneath me and just as I begin to fall through my boy crawls out from underneath a bassinet. In his fist is a tiny book. On the cover is a picture of a plain brown mouse. He holds it up. “MOUSE,” he says. This is his first real word. “MY MOUSE,” he says. I am amazed. I am relieved. His pronunciation is perfect. I want to pick him up. Reward him with kisses. Hold him and never let him go. But Miss Birdy stops me. “No, no,” she says. She softly wags a finger at my boy. “That’s not your mouse. That’s no one’s mouse.” Her voice slows. “That mouse—” Miss Birdy coughs. “That mouse,” she says, “is alone in this world, and barely …” Miss Birdy stops. “What was that?” she asks. “What was what?” I say. “That sound,” says Miss Birdy. “I don’t know,” I say. “What did it sound like?” “It was a sound that sounded like a sound,” says Miss Birdy. “Like a sound a sound would make. Never mind. Where was I?” “You were with the mouse.” “Oh, the mouse! Do you know him?” “No,” I say. “Unless you mean …” “Neither do I,” says Miss Birdy. “And this is my point. That mouse …” Miss Birdy is now looking at my boy. “That mouse is alone in this world and barely …” Miss Birdy sucks in one long, beautiful breath. “Exists,” says Miss Birdy, triumphantly. “That mouse is not unlike you.” She is still looking at my boy. “When I call out for that mouse in the dark does the mouse come? No, the mouse does not. Do you? So far not even once.” My baby puts his whole hand in Miss Birdy’s mouth and leaves it there for what seems like days.
On Monday Miss Birdy’s bright pink blouse is fluttering with excitement. “Your boy wrote his name today all by himself!” She hands me a piece of construction paper. Someone, not my baby, has written on it S H R E D S. I hand the paper back. “That is not his name.” “Oh,” says Miss Birdy. She looks at the paper and her face crumples. “I am sorry,” says Miss Birdy. “I don’t know how this happened.” “I don’t know how anything happens,” I say. We hold hands. “I’m so lonely,” says Miss Birdy. “I’m so lonely too,” I say. “I thought you were my hiding place,” says Miss Birdy. I picture her skull. “I thought you were mine,” I say. Miss Birdy ties a yellow scarf around her head. “Stop picturing my skull,” says Miss Birdy. She is
clearly upset. Her lips are cracked and begin to bleed a little. She looks at the construction paper and traces each letter with her thumb. “If this isn’t his name, then whose name is it?” She sorts through the other babies. She pats me down as if searching for something. She touches me on the thigh. She feels like she’s about to snow.
The next day, there’s a message from Miss Birdy. “We cannot give your boy his bottle. The milk you left was wild. Please bring better milk.”
I rush to Live Oak. I have no better milk. This is the only milk I have. I point to each breast. Miss Birdy is holding my baby. He is shivering and hungry. Miss Birdy is snowing. Hard. I try to walk toward her but there is a great wind and I can barely see through the big, white flakes. “THIS IS THE ONLY MILK I HAVE.” I am calling to Miss Birdy and my boy through the snowstorm. My arms are outstretched. “Come to Mama,” I cry. I say my baby’s name. It sounds smaller and flatter than I ever imagined it. I can’t get to him. Miss Birdy is a blizzard that could last all winter. “I AM SORRY.” I am shouting. Miss Birdy has my baby and she is snowing. It is all my fault. I should never have left him. I AM SORRY I AM SORRY I AM SORRY. I am punching at the snow. I am fighting against nature when I know I have no choice but to wait until spring. The mother covered in daughters kneels beside me. This time I count fifteen. “Climb on,” she says. “I am so sorry,” I say. “It is the only milk I have.” “Of course it is,” she says. “Is there room?” I ask. “Around my neck,” she says. I climb up and hang on loosely. The mother covered in daughters is warm and I am so tired. “Go to sleep,” says the mother. “I will wake you up when it’s time to go.” But the mother never does wake me up. Which is how you know this story is true.
TWEET
A lot of my friends are following the Rabbi so I start following the Rabbi too. We follow him into a community swimming pool and splash around. Our suits match. Light blue with moons and stars. The Rabbi’s twinkle so ours twinkle too. When the Rabbi floats we all float too. A lot of my friends are following the Rabbi out of the swimming pool, so I follow the Rabbi too. We wrap ourselves in one large, green towel. The towel is tagged. We take turns touching the tag. God, it is lovely. It is a lovely, lovely tag. That we should all one day be tagged by a tag as lovely as this tag. That we should one day run into one another on this or that sidewalk and know we once were friends. Good friends.
At the community swimming pool there is a goat. There should not be a goat but one thing has led us to another. So now there is a goat. The Rabbi climbs inside. We follow him. It is warm. Too warm. Beautiful Leonora is here. She is following the Rabbi too. We nod to each other. Inside the goat is a tree. The goat is tagged. The tree is tagged. The Rabbi sits under its shade. The shade is tagged. We sit next to the Rabbi. We breathe in the matted, gamey heat. We are sweating. We pick at the stars on our suits. We leave the moons alone. We pick at the Rabbi’s stars. We leave the moons alone. He doesn’t seem to notice or care or feel us picking at his suit. We are struggling to be recognized. We wish for a short lecture on god and happiness. We wish Beautiful Leonora would get out of here, for she is in our way. For she is tons more beautiful than the beauty of all of our faces combined. Someone bursts out laughing and disappears. Still, without Beautiful Leonora it is crowded enough.
The Rabbi reaches up as if to wave at us, almost smiles, but then his hand drops and our hearts sink. The heat inside this goat is unbearable. The Rabbi climbs out so we climb out too.
On Wednesday my friends follow the Rabbi all the way to 125th Street so I follow too. It’s a clear, sunny afternoon. Today my friends and I are a merry gang. The Rabbi walks slowly so we all walk slowly. When the Rabbi stops we all stop too. At around four o’clock we get so close to the Rabbi we almost catch a nectarine that falls out of his wool pocket, but Beautiful Leonora gets to it first. We wish Beautiful Leonora would get the hell out of our way. We wish this Rabbi bore gusto, but he bears none.
The Rabbi sighs. The Rabbi is morose. “A Mouse Rabbi?” we ask. “No,” we say. “A morose Rabbi.” We get a faraway look. “A Mouse Rabbi?” we ask. “Once,” we say. “Long ago.”
Nobody asks this Rabbi for comfort, only that he should guide us.
We follow the Rabbi. His sighs get louder. We follow him into a brick building and up a carpeted stairway that eventually leads to Apartment B. The Rabbi knocks. We are piled up all over the hallway. We are sleeping. We are reading. We are becoming very famous, or getting married, or slowly dying. The Rabbi knocks again. Beautiful Leonora answers. How has she gotten here first? Who is following whom? We look behind us. Endless grass. A person could get lost in this grass.
A lot of my friends are following A Person Could Get Lost In This Grass so I start following A Person Could Get Lost In This Grass too.
There is so much grass here. In the distance, we see My Mother. We try to run toward her but the grass slows us down. For days, we follow A Person Could Get Lost In This Grass until we finally come to My Mother. She is bent over, like she is picking a flower. We tap her on the shoulder. When she turns around we see she is not My Mother, but Beautiful Leonora. Her mouth is stuffed with grass, and she is smiling, and she is more beautiful than ever.
A lot of my friends are following Apartment B so I start following Apartment B where Beautiful Leonora and the morose Rabbi are now slow dancing. “What song is that?” we ask. We listen. We stare at Beautiful Leonora. She is grass-stained and far better than us. “It Had To Be You,” we say. “Who?” we say. “Me?” “No,” we say. “The name of the song,” we say. “It Had to Be You.” “You?” we ask. “Us?” we hope. “No,” we say. “Her.” We point at Beautiful Leonora. It had to be her, which doesn’t seem fair. It really should be all of us.
Though we refuse to follow Beautiful Leonora, we drag ourselves over to her, she who is light incarnate, and say, “Beautiful Leonora, it really should be all of us.” We try to push her away. We try to slow dance with the Rabbi. A lot of my friends are following It Had to Be You so I start following It Had to Be You too. We are pushing and shoving and trying to get ourselves close to the Rabbi so he might hold us, and sway, and let his head fall gently on our shoulder. So he might close his eyes and whisper our name in our ear. But the Rabbi and Beautiful Leonora are oblivious to our desires. They just keep dancing. It’s as if we’re not even really here.
I unfollow the Rabbi. I unfollow everything.
Two days later I long to follow something again. I look for the Rabbi, but he’s gone. I don’t see Beautiful Leonora either. If my friends still exist, their names have been changed. I try to follow Where Am I and I’m Sorry and I Do Not Wish to Burst Into Smithereens but no one is accepting new followers. It is freezing cold. And all the lights in this city are out. I turn around. My Husband and My Babies are following me. They are shivering. They turn around. I follow them. I turn around. They follow me. They turn around. I follow them. We are like toy soldiers patrolling a castle. It is so cold. We are turning blue. We are hungry. I put My Husband and My Babies on my back and carry them through the dark city. I search for the Rabbi everywhere. I search for Beautiful Leonora. I search for my friends. Like an animal, I howl for them. My Husband and My Babies are so heavy. Who will feed us? Who will keep us warm? How am I supposed to know where to go?
CLAY
In my day / Son / everybody knew how to pronounce the word “faucet” / and everybody knew how to apologize / profusely, and everybody knew how to vanish. / And when a man / drove up to your house with a truck / full of soil, mulch, and rocks / you knew he was there to grow something, Son. He was there / to make a difference. Nowadays the world’s so heavy / that very same man is face / down in the flowers. Go try to talk to him, Son. Go try and pick him up. He’ll never rise / Unlike the lonesome crowd in my heart that rose / and rose and rose / to its feet when you arrived / cheering wildly, he’ll never rise / He’ll never rise no matter how much green fuzz from your green fuzzy mittens you flick at him / for he is sour bones. / For it is my doom you undo / not his. F
or winter is here forever, Son, so bundle up. Here is your pancake / in the shape of a chicken. I’m sorry. I couldn’t get the feathers / right. For a long time, Son, I pursued / happiness. I gave lectures on margins / and darkness. And when a hand / went up, and mouths would move, / sometimes I saw clouds. Sometimes even a little bit / of rain. But mostly nothing. And there you were far / in the back. In the very last row. There you were the whole / time, no not the whole time, but here you are now / with your clay, your colored clay. What are you making, Son? / An invisible ocean robot bird from Outer Space? Well that’s as good / a thing as any. In my day, the war was off. / Nowadays, the war is super / on. I look around at what is left of us and wonder / where does all this love / come from? In my day, Son, we knew. The love / it came from the river called Mother or Hands or God or Something. I do not know / why today of all days / I chose to wear this lemon yellow blouse. It fits me / terribly. “My words,” you say / “are forgetting me.” Me too, Son. Me too. Hold my hand. / It’s a long walk home. / In my day, Son, it felt good / to lose everything. It felt like winning. / And in my day, Son, laughter was fragile. You prayed / for laughter, Son, and sometimes laughter / would never come. And sometimes the joke / was on you and it was heavy / and you were face down right beside the man / face down in the flowers but you got up, Son. / In my day, you got the hell up. / My throat is sore. My throat has been sore / for a long, long time. You see that tree, Son? It’s a ghost. / It’s all ghosts. I’m a ghost. / And you’re a ghost. This whole town / is a ghost. In my day, we all knew / how to be ghosts. It meant / something to be a ghost. And if your mother / was a ghost you were proud / of your mother. Nowadays, Son / all I ever want to do is fix something. Something big. / Something incredibly broken. When I was a little girl / I rocked back and forth and sang the Hallelujah / in a dark wool dress. / In a big, loud voice. / Nowadays, no one knows / how to apologize. No one knows how to vanish. / I’m trying to teach you something, Son / about perseverance and grief and forgiveness. You are almost four / and you want to stay three / forever. “I don’t want to be a very old man” / you say, “with very white hair.” Don’t be frightened, Son. / Everything is far away. / I was wrong. The man / in the flowers is looking around. He is rising up. / Maybe he would like to share / your colored clay? I’m sorry, Son / I’m just a poet. I hope this is enough. / If it isn’t I’ll burn down the house / and give you the ashes.
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