In Sleep, Baby Jane

At the 3am feeding, I swear, I can hear the milk

from my body hitting your stomach,

it’s entering like rain into rain.

The water of your body swallowing

the echo of the moon in this dark room.

Outside, it’s so cold this December

that everything breaks

under any kind of weight.

The trees are covered in a fine sheen

of looking glass. I move the curtain back

to see if the aquarium holds any life yet.

There’s only a pane of glass

between us and this ocean.

Heaven. The road is white and quiet.

where an owl glides between worlds,

pulled by an invisible string.

She carries a stone in her talon.

Everyone will one day learn how to swim.

The highway is closed tonight for ice

because out there, too many slid off the road.

Tonight, a family mourns.

There was a moment just before

the world began to spin.

And the owl drops the stone

where a fish, out of the dark,

swallows it whole.

Here, in this room, my tiny angel eats

with her eyes closed,

hands clenched in the smallest fists,

swaddled still, close

to the heat of my body.

We’re both still in a dream.

When I pick you up out of your cry,

your lips purse into a kiss.

Coming up for air. Growing larger

as we breathe, under the ceiling

and tide of the room.

Laura Stott is the author of three poetry collections, most recently, The Bear's Mouth (Lynx House Press, 2024), where this poem appears. She also teaches, poetry, creative writing, and poetry + printmaking at Weber State University.