Somewhere between a fable and an exigence of language, Milk Sickness exists. It scurries. It prefers dirt. A story about a boy, a girl, their children, their children's ghosts, a city, and a softer, gentler apocalypse. There are also knives. Milk Sickness speaks to, or at least toward and around, a world of climate catastrophe without mentioning the Anthropocene. Whatever sense there is to be found subsumes itself beneath the fever of the sentence. The girl holds a boxcutter to the awful throat of god.