I still need to hold you near
and feel your dear mouth close
about that tender part of me
where no milk flows.

This sacred thing that should have been,
this rite of every mother,
will not now, nor ever be
a bond, one to the other.

Yet though I feel this utter loss,
a nagging emptiness,
I also smell your warm skin close,
know you don’t need me less.

Song and smile, touch and glance,
we dance our dance until –
scent and hand, hold and clasp,
it’s clear: I love you still.

If love and nourishment are one,
and I love you just the same,
then let me give you love, my love,
that does not bend to shame.

If love and nourishment are one,
perhaps that’s all we need:
to trust our bond is ever here,
regardless how we feed.