Monday, October 27, 2008

On Nursing A Teething Infant

Am I insane
To entrust my tender skin
To this ferocious beast
With sharp teeth and claws, thrashing
Inflicting pain needlessly, heedlessly
And sometimes just for fun?

How can I be her rock, her mountain
When my flesh is made of flesh, not stone?

I am not your rock; I am your mother.
Now stop biting me and go to sleep.

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