Feeding

Baby at my breast

sucks hard, contented.

My favourite time, 

sitting down at last.

She is cradled on one arm

a cushion under my elbow,

my novel in the other hand.

I read of another world

away from nappies and custard-shit,

sleepless nights and boredom-filled days.

My other breast is prickling, leaking.

gently I insert my finger

between lips and nipple,

a small pop of vacuum broken.

She opens her indigo eyes

and stares resentfully.

I shift her to the other side,

she latches on, eyelids dropping.

Now my book is out of reach,

so I look down

at her dimpled hand

beating gently on my blue-veined breast,

and pick the cradle-cap,

like ear-wax, off her head,

and wonder about another life.