Poem: Breastfeeding, 3 a.m.

Because you had set the precedent
I was promised hours of sleep,
Instead receiving minutes strung together
like cheap Christmas lights,
plastic orbs of color that burst into light
and immediately fade.

I love you, sweet thing, and everyone wants
to be needed, but this is so scraping, so garment-rending
in its urgency.  Young lovers are desperate too, in their desire,
but your need is much more carnal: I am food,
I am comfort and warmth.  I am tired,

but that word, too, is different, wrong.
There is no real word for it,
And for you, tiny girl, lips flayed against the thin skin
of my left areola, your impossibly small hands
kneading the flesh that spreads above it.

Your babyhood will also flash and be gone –
and that burns, too, like the sacrificial holiness of my sleep,
my comfort, my sanity.

It burns the flesh away to reveal the bone,
something stronger, underneath.

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