mothers milk

Writing with child suckling at my breast.  He is falling asleep lullabied by the assurance of mother.  The sweet smell. The soft skin against his face.  The arythmic rocking of my foot. His legs across mine. The taste of milk in his mouth .He ducks in and out of sleep, opening his little beak, searching for my nipple.He trusts me the most, yet does not. I the mother, am the only presence he needs at night. Needs to be with him . Yet I keep leaving  him alone . He wakes ad hoc to check if mother is where she should be. His mouth opens and closes searching in the dark.  His hands grope ahead, trough blankes, pillows, seeking  warmth. Podgey legs are thrown left to right, aimed over my thigh. If all  efforts meet air, he turns to the side of the father, calmley extends the ritual, than climbs onto his little hands , sleepy baby head weighing so much it wobbles, and lets out a cry. One syllable. Like a lighthouse. To listen out for any resonance.  And I hear though walls and appear hither. I gather him into my arms, he greedily snaps for the nipple,  and I rock him back and forth humming, stroking the feathery head, kissing the irresistible round cheek, for the third time this evening. . He sleeps eavesdropping,  lies in wait for  my movement,  guarding his treasure like a dragon ,drifting in and out of deep slumber, to tug the nipple ,  irreplaceable evidence that I am here. We are together.