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.

--Jennifer Raha

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