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.
She falls off the breast and rests
her warm breath against it, says — Ah,
but I can’t tell you. The language between us
as a closed lily
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.
INDONESIA BRESTFEEDING NETWORK
Breast is the Best ! What could be more natural?
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