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Every Three Hours

With a grin,

he locks eyes

and utters, in quick succession, little coughs;

clearing his throat perhaps,

requesting dinner,

thrilled.


Mouth gaping,

nose nuzzling,

he seeks.

I guide,

shoulders hunched,

neck bowed.


We pause.


His floppy ear tickling my palm,

my fingertips sensing

downy fuzz

first bending, then brushing,

my hand cradling the warmth of his tiny head.


A momentary meditation, and

my milk flows

in satisfying gulps.

I breathe him in, and

by design,

hormones engulf me

entirely.





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