Rock-pool eyes,

kindling in my cradle.

I suspect he’s fretting 

when his arms spasm 

but it’s my chest he’s worrying.

Stop-motion moves –

at play or clutch –

his head dips to bone, a plate.

‘I can’t sustain you, son, 

like you do me.’

In hope or sorrow, his long 

fingernails undo seams, 

finding no milk yet, 

but undoing all else in me, 

until I am a vessel afterall,

before this moment

Empty 

Empty

Empty.