Stand with your knees bent, never lock them.
Cup your hands skywards, press them against
your waist. Your breasts are full— milk flows

Down, tiny blue rivulets fill your waiting palms.
A bird perches on your crown, his red feathers
combed in splendor, wings of many colors.

Strong talons grasp, then pull you up. Your hands
release milk, yet steady against balance, your arms
arc back and forth— lifting you.