ANCIENT RHYTHM
Uphill toward outstretched pines
panting, I climb.
The baby burrows
her head under my shirt, sucking
until I stumble--
when she cries, milk dripping, I pull close
her squirming body, her rooting mouth. Rocks scrape
the ankles of my searching. My hair hangs
into her face, a few mossy strands pulled taut
by her fists. Her eyes close, body relaxing
with each warm gulp. Past tattered birch
and dark cliffs, step by step,
my body weaves an ancient
rhythm. I learn to cradle her head against my breast,
my elbow pressing her legs into the hollow
of myself. Time coils
its thickness around my
shoulders as I plod upward, leaving footprints
in pine needles. Looking ahead
and not down, trusting
my feet to the ripening August earth,
I walk with other women
who in other times
have climbed
this hill
babies at their breasts.
-------------------------------
Published in 13th Moon: A Feminist LIterary Magazine
Uphill toward outstretched pines
panting, I climb.
The baby burrows
her head under my shirt, sucking
until I stumble--
when she cries, milk dripping, I pull close
her squirming body, her rooting mouth. Rocks scrape
the ankles of my searching. My hair hangs
into her face, a few mossy strands pulled taut
by her fists. Her eyes close, body relaxing
with each warm gulp. Past tattered birch
and dark cliffs, step by step,
my body weaves an ancient
rhythm. I learn to cradle her head against my breast,
my elbow pressing her legs into the hollow
of myself. Time coils
its thickness around my
shoulders as I plod upward, leaving footprints
in pine needles. Looking ahead
and not down, trusting
my feet to the ripening August earth,
I walk with other women
who in other times
have climbed
this hill
babies at their breasts.
-------------------------------
Published in 13th Moon: A Feminist LIterary Magazine