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.
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heartbreakingly beautiful--thank you!