Breastmilk

Her finger touching the nether lip
Sometimes, in pensive thought.
At night bent wound like a nipple
Sucking slow to soothing, sleep
Hand flung caressing the pillow
Dreaming the soft breast of her ma
like it was in her infant state.

What pains this proud poised,
Independent young woman,
A modern, strong, free, resolute,
Yet in shy furtive, secrecy,
A grown up in child’s dungaree
Like a suckling giant comic
Secretly sucking her thumb!

Was it that her turn at the breast
Was much too brief or that
This babe was late in coming,
Chose to linger longer cocooned
In warm comfort liquid membrane
Cosseted in her mother’s womb until
Rudely seized and ripped out
Into the strange noise and neon glare
Of ugly masked blue gowned
Creatures thumping her back
With white gloved tentacles
to make her cry?