By Leah Browning

I wake in the night to find you
nestled close to me under the quilt,
your tiny hands stroking my breast.

You nurse and nurse, not even opening
your beautiful sleepy eyes, the lids threaded
with delicate blue veins. This, our

dim sanctuary. It’s raining outside, holy
water falling from the eaves, my
breast deflating softly like a jellyfish.

You turn, sighing, perfectly content,
your warm milky breaths slow and even.
Those tiny fingers knead my skin

even in sleep. A smile darts across your face,
a dreamy version of your dimpled grin. You’re full
of secrets not yet spoken. My fingers are laced

through your hair, stroking your fluid skin,
searching out the answers with my fingertips.
Why fine bones broaden in your presence, my son,

and why I find, each time I embrace you,
that I am this porous earth.

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