A War Mum with a New Born

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Gravity-defying stunt
Of how the lap-work cradle
Of a mother, in horizontal transfer,
Makes little waves of sleep
Under an ebony tree.

He sleeps through the sounds
Of night owls and fruit bats
Not knowing the difference
Between the two.

Yet looking constantly out at
The breast that feeds, the child suckles
The nectar, not knowing
The difference between
Right and left.

And through the serpents
In the forest, the moon on the lake
And dawn undressing the gloom
He sleeps, wakes up and suckles
Not sensing any difference

Between a tongue’s sweetness
And a teat’s crippling fear.

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