Low space of slowed breaths, masquerade of sleep,
fragments wheel, the elderly snore, placeless
architecture gathers grief. Dark-sealed from sunseep,
only baby knows it’s morning and someone else’s
dog tip-tapping on the cold concrete floor.
Though she fears fear might make her lose her milk,
there’s pull, release, the reliable work of baby’s jaw,
and she feels under the cot, desperate for her cell,
holding it high above baby’s scalp, boundless imagery
inside wherever this placelessness is, this screen
of streetscapes once her own, rubble suddenly,
belonging to any war, and it happens, it happens:
it is happening. She lies back, focusing on
the milk, the drawing forth, the drawing forth.