Her humming wakes me.
Her profile illumined by moonlight
sneaking through sheer breezy curtains.
She rocks a cradle I’ve not seen.
Her eyes are closed. She smiles a secret.
I want to sit with her.
I stumble off a floor mattress,
my legs surprisingly short and pudgy.
I toddle on dimpled feet,
cloth diaper scritching my thighs.
I know I am a dream toddler,
yet I persist, seeking, seeking.
I want to coddle with you, I announce.
Yet all I can say is MAAAMMMAAAA.
I clutch at her arm, a hard wooden branch.
She ignores me, her eyes closed. She hums.
I crawl into the rocking cradle,
hoping to inhale her mother song.
I nestle into bunting warmed by her breath
and am shockingly pierced by broken glass
lining the blanket, shards of mirror
that revel her soul and identity.
I am mercifully startled from this nightmare.
Awaken, woman, awaken.
I am stunned into now, to the tradewind breath
of my son in the Moses basket next to my bed.
His calls to me cries of I need you, your life and touch.
So I hold him. He drinks my milk and energy
and I declare to that mother in the cold moonlight.
Be gone. You have no hold on me.