She lies in my lap,
The crook of my arm too hot, too restrictive,
Her ear presses into my palm
As I take the weight of her head in my hand.
Back and forth to the rhythm of my breath,
As she rejects her plastic soother
And seeks the warmth of mother’s breast.
Where once she drowned,
Now she greedily takes in the abundance of milk.
Reaching for the familiar silver dangling from my neck,
She gets down to the business of nursing.
Her fingers gently tousle the small leaves
Hanging from a silver branch,
Until they catch a strand of hair
And are no longer gentle.
She stops drinking to look behind her,
Lest she be missing something exciting
Like a clown parade, a balloon release,
Or just her sister.
Confident we are alone,
She turns back,
Latches on more deeply,
And closes her eyes in contentment.
I breathe and rock,
And let the calm wash over me,
The practical overlaps with the intimate,
Breastfeeding becomes the best of both.