Everything dear and familiar has shifted
slightly. Off kilter. Floor at a slope, walls aslant.
In the darkness the crib just out of reach and then
there in my hand, rail too high and surprisingly solid.
For so many nights the baby's stammering cry
has uprooted me from sleep that tonight
I woke not for sound but for silence, wet sheets,
and the heavy ache in my breasts. Now I hesitate,
hand on the crib rail, milk dripping,
holding my own breath to hear the sound of his.
Sleep has stolen him from me, me from him.
A river floods the seam newly sprung open
between us, leaves me stranded on the far shore.
The room's unbounded, walls receded to forest,
nowhere a light to show the way home.