First Milk, Beestings

It is a habit of mine--likely a nasty one--of hurling things I love at people I love. Barbara Hamby has a lovely poem in which the speaker describes giving a multiple-choice test (maybe on Keats?) to potential suitors. While I'm not sure it would be the kind thing to do--required reading--I'm also often bursting with things that it's difficult to get very far without some spilling out; part of me thinks it's only fair to give those I love a fighting chance when these things invariably slip into conversation. It's terrible, I know.

Nonetheless, it's often all I can do to keep myself from opening the second-story window and hurling loveliness (wax candles and mittens and buttons) at those walking down the street. I'm hoping my entries here will sate that desire, if only a little. I'm sure it wouldn't do to leave anyone bruised.

So, an offering of first milk, beestings: That milk which starts sort of flowing out of mammals in late pregnancy, the kind that mothers burst with, that milk maids never pull.