Her Milk, My Milk Poem by James McLain

Inside of the house on the surface.
Her milk of my wife is the mother.
And this strange lactating goddess,
two sensitive protective places, by her hands I drink.
My necessities are like hers and the meals,
from which I by her insistance partake of entirely.
What the gallons of which off to it she gives,
can I and I have remembered within each creamy dreams.
In the blood lies my finger, hers which ties off unto the hat.
My freckled arms from this somewhere I am connected,
like two dogs to that heaving chest.
Which from it I catch and it shoots off to, with me,
you have me stoop down up and out.
The sound like waves from your chest,
How I have known at midnight like my lost black sea.
The mother,
I put the bees in my mouth and pull as I eat.
Your chest where milk poured out finally from both those noises.
Whom may with out my, shut off the milk?
Included are both hands and he gripping those.
You took thate from his and inside where of those it is planted.
I of you, you of I who put in place the padlock, you the mother,
became from love and never die, for you to be large as bells,
those being more valuable, the white shivering foal,
it is possible, as it runs to it goes, running, as a stream
for that certain place
and being pulled off it wanders over next door, too wherever.