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It is not
easy.
It does not
comfort.

My arms are full of worry and pain,
Holding my breath and waiting for her to snap.

Five months later, it is not
Like riding a bike.

She does not
Mold herself to my spent body,
Relax in the crook of my arm,
Eagerly press her lips to the life-giving flow.

This milk is not
The perfect food--
Instead a toxic concoction making her
Arch, writhe,
Explode, tear, bleed.

It is not easy.
It is not best.
It is not what I hoped.

I am not ready to let go.