Nursing: Two Years Old

1.

As he falls asleep, he tucks his free handunder the elastic of my sports bra.This is what he'll remembereven after it seems absurdto suck on his mother's breast—his fingers locked against my skin,the sweat of his palm mixing with the sweatbeneath my breast, and the darkness,the sweet darkness of our bodies softly touching.

2.

Yes, he is wild, careless and wild,his teeth scraping my nippleas he rolls away, kicking and laughing,then back to me, always back to me,my breast stretched like a pipein his grinning mouth. And yes,sometimes I want to throw himacross the room, his monkey-body pouncing the walls—but mostly I want him backon the breast, in the ancient dark,the beastly hold of sleep.

3.

I dream I am gone,living with my mother and sister in San Diego.

I don't remember himuntil I am walking through the warm, lit nightand begin to swell.

I lift my shirt—I'm not embarrassed—and squeeze out two fat, white drops.His milk.

I think: He's almost three years old.Can't I get away for a few days?

My breasts have other plans,and I walk among pine trees and cicadas

leaking and crying, my mother and sisteryoung again, their strong brown arms

carrying me home.

4.

"I love you, Mom,"he says, unprompted, for the first time,then takes my breast squarely into his mouth,his other hand fiddling with my brauntil it falls in its customary spotbeneath the strap. And it's as thoughnothing has happened, nothinghas changed, it's normalto love this way, a mother and sonat two o'clock in darkSeptember, it astonishes mehow utterly normal it isto mouth these words,to suck, to fondle, then sleep.