In the June light you had been hoping for

(late evening amber skirting across hardwood),

you walk toward the western window and watch

the yard animals gather and skid along the green.

The infant in your arms, exhausted from its journey,

hums out sighs, primal, thin.

A pulse, the web of veins in your marble-breasts.

Milk comes in a fever, a flush of human knowing,

the body-knowing your brain did not anticipate.

You wanted a warm-weather baby.

You wanted her first days to be filled

with the scent sweet grass and honeysuckle.

You did not know that all she would seek is you.