Untitled nursing poem

i.

Why are there no poems
about this: the infant nursing herself to sleep,
fresh from the bath, her hair curly
with the warm damp of her body
which smells like moss, and is that patient.
It is small, the way the moon's pull
is small; the ocean leans only a little
towards it. It is common
the way a heartbeat is common, or waves:
little doors that open, open, open.

ii.

She falls off the breast and rests
her warm breath against it, says --
Ah, but I can't tell you. The language between us
secret
as a closed lily

iii.

Asleep, now. Her little ear
intricate as a word, full
of pink shadows.