Down the hall I hear someone cry out
and my wife won't leave her pillow
to expose her breast and stop the hunger
of a new generation which forces me
to open my eyes and walk in the dark
of my daughter's room.
She's been alive for only six weeks
and she wants more than I do,
or can give her.
When I free her from the cradle,
only to lie in the hammock of my arms,
she turns her head towards my barren chest.
I think of my wife drinking
from the dark sea night
like her daughter drinks from the plastic nipple
I place between her loving lips.
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