Sleeping with Baby, December

Steam rises, here and north of here,
from a hundred holes in the snow,
from a hundred warm stone caves
where sister bear curls dreaming against the cold
around a cub who grumbles, stirs
the way you do against my belly,
under this thick, white blanket.

In the walls of here and everywhere
in fluffy nests of shredded work gloves,
leaves, insulation,
mouse mother’s white belly curves
like the crescent moon around her naked brood,
containing their blindness.
Think of it: in attic boxes, basement drawers,
warm fur and the tiny miracle of mouse milk.

Even in deepest sleep I cannot put you down.
I know from instinct
that birth takes months; a push from womb
to cradleboard, hammock, sling.
Woman rises, sore, from birthing,
returns to the work of life. Hands free
for gathering, digging in dirt, kneading bread,
she walks unhindered, patting the sling
like a pregnant belly, shifting familiar weight.

Baby remembers the tight, dark warmth,
the comfort of heartsounds; rides rocked
In her walk, awash in the waves of her breathing
like before.

At night, in the furs and quilts,
in hammocks and sleeping mats, pioneer rope beds, in wigwams, grass huts, soddies,
they slept as we sleep now
heart to heart.

Before you were born
I listened for you all night, curled on my side around your squirming.
Now your breathing comforts me back; you wake
and nurse, rooting, grunting like a lion cub,
smelling of warmth and milk.
When newborn nightmares furrow your brow,
(what fear from deep and long ago?)
Push that quivering bottom lip, you stiffen, reach out,
touch…
mama
and that face erases, small pond after a rain.

I try to imagine why you should be
in the next room, alone, on that wide caged mattress
where predators drool and prowl.
Where instinct (your only compass) says unheld is unsafe.

Alone, crying that wail of the dropped and falling
the howl of the foundling,
orphan left on the forest floor,
on glacial ridge, in desert sand,
alone.

Kelly Averill-Savino, 1995