I try to feel my own edges in the
low light. I send my mind to the
outer edges of me — where do I end?
I send myself to my innermost edges,
and I see that in both directions 
I am infinite.

I respond to many names.
Sometimes I am different people.
Sometimes I am the me that howls in
the night.
Sometimes I am the sickening silence.
I wear moonlight in my hair and bare
my teeth.

I took her into bed with me and propped myself up with pillows against the headboard to let her nurse. As she nursed and the milk came, she began a little low contented sort of singing. I would feel milk and love flowing from me to her as once it had flowed to me. It emptied me. As the baby fed, I seemed slowly to grow empty of myself, as if in the presence of that long flow of love even grief could not stand.

Nursing does not diminish the beauty of a woman's breasts; it enhances their charm by making them look lived in and happy.

In my experience nursing is waiting. The mother becomes the background against which the baby lives, becomes time. I used to exist against the continuity of time. Then I became the baby's continuity, a background of ongoing time for him to live against. I was the warmth and milk that was always there for him, the agent of comfort that was always there for him.

My body, my life, became the landscape of my son's life. I am no longer merely a thing living in the world; I am a world.

I choose to breastfeed. No ifs, no buts, just plain love for my baby