that untitled breastfeeding poem (revised)
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, as 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, nursing
in her sleep: her serious mouth working
like a bow. Yes, this is strong enough
to punch armour.
I put a breath into
the intricate word of her ear.
1 Comments
I adore this poem, it’s just lovely — but I think I might prefer the original version of Part III, for whatever that might be worth. It’s sweeter, simpler — though I can understand the allure of the wordplay on “bow” and the zing of “strong enough to punch armour”, it seems too vigorous (to me) compared to the delicacy of the rest of the poem. But as you know, I am no poet, so I could be wrong.