Monday, March 4, 2013
The whole memory of it is breasts:
the baby trying to clamp on, head bobbing
around the flesh, I help her find
each warm nipple, holding her head
in one palm, her bottom
in the other. I told no one
of her delivery. How suddenly
she was there, belonging
to me. I was some kind of whore
a loveless woman, myself.
She was five pounds and thirteen ounces:
too small. I kept forgetting to feed her.
None of it was as it should be;
I was sorry the whole time.
A half family and somebody's joke.
She sucked through the whole dream.