Mothers

(http://themetapicture.com/these-pictures-are-what-dreams-are-made-of/)

you are little more than
silk against my breast,
eyes closed with gentle
willingness while I am
frantically carving every one
of your miniscule movements
in a place where I can pit them
against my own lack of comfort –

these early suns and moons
are all those ones we should
remember like dreams, if
only I could stop trying to
decode the twitching of your
eyelids, counting your lashes,
listening for your ocean breath
through a misshapen shell –

you are content despite
your mother’s beautiful
weariness, her eyes that
are glass no matter your state
and I have been told that I
will still sneak to you at night,
when you are much larger than
I am, if only to steal a little peace.