Skin to skin,
a flood of oxytocin
should bring the milk in.
Days and nights
consumed with
latching, positioning,
comforting, nursing.
Gritted teeth
through searing pain,
I pull you close, you push
and scream again.
It shouldn't be like this.
The shame.
'Is he your first?'
'His weight seems fine
'You must know that babies,
cry sometimes,'
but I woke in terror
as you're struggling
to breathe
and I'm afraid
to close my eyes
and break
the careful watch
I keep.
I fear losing you,
and I know I'm losing myself.
A battle brings you no relief,
you cry for hours
through every feed,
No one can tell me
what is wrong, or how
To give you what you need.
But I'm your voice,
your advocate, so
I read, and read,
and read.
Reflux, and allergies
to proteins in the milk of cows,
that filter through my body,
so I cut all traces out
from every particle
that passes through
my mouth.
In time you drink from me
without the cries of pain
we keep on going, keep on going,
for more than a thousand days,
and now you are nearly three,
I never planned to feed this long,
some people are offended,
some people say it's wrong
for you to have this milk
that my body makes for you
that's tailored to your needs,
and full of antibodies too
because I feed you from my breast
that's shaped to feed a child
the place you find your comfort
where you relax and smile
and lay your head
upon my chest
Close to my heart.