You kneel to take milk from my breast like your son, your searching mouth and parted lips like a slick channel between distant islands, like my sex and yours. The blue light of the television turns your skin a milky white as you pull my nipple hard. I think of my hand in your mouth feeling the cheek-membranes stretch and your eyes widen to accept me, of the way I might feel if I could reach down your throat to your greedy bloody heart and find love. Our child is evidence, something that proved once you felt something like love or the pale approximation I’ll accept for lack of anything else. I could spasm your throat like a cancer with just my tiny hand and find no warmth, though I rip through your guts like a sharp north wind. This curtain I have drawn is to protect you from the neighbors, give you privacy as I give you suck, open my blouse for your thorny hot breath. This curtain, my hand, the drawn linen, the television noise. No baby, shh baby, don’t cry, Mama’s here, poor little thing. Don’t worry, baby, no one will see.