Baby At My Breast

My son, playing tent under his bedclothes
with a flashlight, says he remembers
floating in the friendly forest
of my womb, the darkness punctuated
now and then by a beam of sunlight
as I floated in the pool reading
and cells divided, divided, divided again.

He remembers nursing
too, he boasts, and I hope it’s true.
It remains as much a part of me
as he does, that calming release
as he tugged on my breast,
eyes closed, tiny as a kitten,
moaning with bliss, his tummy
and even his face swelling,
my hand cradling his perfect foot.
Afterward, he was so content
he seemed a different boy, his face so fat
we nicknamed him Cue Ball.
One afternoon we fell asleep as he nursed
and I awoke an hour later
to find him still sucking. Such was the strength
of our instincts, our bodies. Never was I
so powerful, he such a loyal subject.
I could have ruled a kingdom.

 

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