What She Made

This is a poem about a mother and son that I know. I feel I have more to write about this topic... In any case, this is a first draft and perhaps not the finished poem.

Mother’s milk is fed to the baby
To make it grow, to feed its muscles,
To strengthen, lengthen bones. From her
Heart and through her breasts, it drips –
Carrying antibodies, carrying vitamins,
Carrying everything baby needs to
Grow up big and strong. She feeds it
To him, tit in mouth; cooing, soothing.
The baby, still unseeing, sucking
Down her body’s liquid. Cell of her cells,
Blind to all, he is safe within her arms.

He is safe, within her house, within
The bedroom, like a cell. His body and
His brain are built, can only be undone
In ways that we all know: the window
In the beer glass base; that doorway
Shaped by smoke. And through it all
Her ringing, clinging: when will I see you?
I need to, I need you, you can’t spend
All your time with her. The milk now sour but
He drinks down. It feeds him, feeds what’s in him.
What she put there. What she made.