After nursing

you're handed off

‍

to me — Dad, Daddy,

Papa, the name we've yet  

‍

to settle on —

and this morning

‍

my skin on yours

puts you right to sleep.

‍

Or, my skin’s

a decent enough replica

‍

to keep you sleeping,

milk balming

‍

your lips.

In the first dream

‍

I have about you

I leave the station

‍

alone, checking my pockets

as if you're a wallet

‍

or phone. Your wail

in the distance,

‍

my heart's four

alarm system

‍

going off.

How can I blame you

‍

then or now

for clinging

‍

to your mother's

warmth, unceasing

‍

light? This morning

after nursing

‍

she hands you off,

sleeping, to me,

‍

your skin on mine

inconceivable

‍

to the city kid

I once was: my parents

‍

having it out

in their bedroom,

‍

my sister's soon

to be jailed

‍

boyfriend climbing

the fire escape

‍

to hers.