They call it kneading
as in dough or massage, this act
of pawing at my bathrobe
by kittens. How lasting the memory
of the mother’s comfort,
babies pushing at her belly
to bring the milk forth.
The gift of warmth
while the mother grooms
with a rough tongue, or simply waits,
regal and elegant, dozing
and blinking over her litter.
The kittens press on
and bare their claws
unaware of the pain they cause
in their shows of affection.
They dig now as though
for memories that precede them,
claw or no claw, the insistence
of paws against fur or flesh, nuzzling
for the nipple. I won’t forget
the sting of my baby’s lips
at my breast after a long night
of biting, how raw the skin grows
long before any teeth show. When
I see new mothers clutching
little bundles at their hips,
guiding tiny lips to take
what they will give
and give and give
I still ache
with the phantom
spring of milk. How
we need and we need.
We need into each other
and out of each other.
In the early days,
in a haze of lost sleep,
my infant’s initial nibble
struck me an ancient summon
urging forth the prehistoric:
a distant call—
emergent, embryonic,
meant to burgeon
and bloom. Then the milk
sprang forth like a warm elixir.
A call and response
I was hardwired to answer.