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Night Feeding 

Poem

Anna's face turns upstream

toward the source, feeding

from Kate's breast. I'm faced

that way too sitting beside them

in the half-dark at half-past

something. Faced toward Creation's

good profile, if it has one.

And I'm feeding too, off the night-

light's inventions: baby rattles

turn to swans on the ceiling,

crib-bars become angelfish

on the walls. Other nights,

I've turned away to eye

baby-mobiles dangling above me

like lures from the past, brazen

faces, garters scattered by a bed, unadult-

erated play. Gone in time's

wayward stream. Almost

retrievable. What turns me back

toward Anna's face is the fullest

nourishment. Her moon-face

floating under a swelled breast,

and Kate's face drifting above

her girl-child's. I imagine my own

wavering beside them on the couch,

turned toward whatever issues

out of nothingness, whatever grows

toward this feeding at this dim hour,

when sustenance seems far off,

or close at hand, flowing

down the current to me

if I will only open my mouth

and let the moment stream in.

"Night Feeding" appears in This Far From the Source, Mid-List Press, forthcoming this July.

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About The Author

Neil Shepard

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