This morning I heard you singing in the dawn,
imagined milky breath on red-raw nipple
his greedy mouth devouring you, eyes creased
crinkled as our sheets in the days when we used to make love.

Your voice swerved, pitched and plundered
a lullaby repertoire of hand-me-down secrets
each note staking claim to the divinity of motherhood.
My wife and child, swaddled in a halo of electric light
that edged me out beneath the bedroom door.

The notes rose, suckling the air. I pictured him
pink with the pleasure of your breast, intent on a conquest
already made, even as he had swelled, ripening,
moulding your body into his image under my hand.

The melody faded. Your footsteps padded to his cot
pausing in their journey back to our bed.
I sensed the betrayal of your kiss on his forehead
and wondered why no-one had told me
the truth about the baby blues.

© Anne de Gruchy