Ode to Nursing

Quiet and alone,
my infant looks at me,
or is it the contrast between my hair and the wall?
There is magic,
forged in heaven
or natural selection
or both.
This bond, gentle and strong,
urges me to keep strange hours
and endure the pain of a thousand tiny sharp needles,
amazed at baby's gaze,
her sweet gurgles and grunts,
that intoxicating smell,
the perfect, soft skin...
The magic spell is broken.
I watch in horror
A sticky drip of mother's milk
creeping toward a freshly bathed fold in baby's neck
and my hands are full.

(It was a long night.)