mothers
mater certa semper est
in soft reponse she lays at rest
the baby nuzzles at her breast
but cannot find the latch
this is not how it should to be
in sickly light at half past three
she groans 'o god what is wrong with me'
having met her match
she thrusts the tit to gaping lips
- keening soft the baby slips
onto the nipple firm - eclipsed
frustration drifts away
she turns her gaze to the dying night
the waning moon silver bright
oh yes - mother is always right
whatever she might say
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