she holds baby like he’s
porcupine,
as if his plum tomato lips
stick her through,
name her pincushion with their
first words,
ma-ma.

most women coo,
it’s not so bad, having your
biological clock
tick-stopped by grasping gasping
clinging crying
staying.
she’s too strong to peel away
softened-butter joints
from her solid-food fingers,
up to the knuckles in pedialyte.

men see the quills on her
baby-wide hips
and imagine lapping at the
baby-bottle poised dripping
hovering millimeters
from her nip-tuck lips.

she prays for I want you,
pulling-strings into her dark-
green bustier,
one pump balancing on the bed,
and listens to drag-stab choruses of
ma-ma
from the men swigging at her breasts,
helpless, crying, clinging,
without necks to hold up their heads.