Nursing a baby, the worried trees trouble her. Her breast pokes through her unbuttoned blouse and the wind blows the branches about incessantly Tiny lips suck on her nipple, declaring with tiny bites, that this is the first free meal, as walls shake, windows rattle, the oak slaps against the house. Nursing a baby, she nudges the rocking chair back and forth, her only input to the hunger at her chest, the storm working up its rage. She moves to a chorus of creaks, scraps of sound, discovering in the urge of her muscle, her bone, an endless way of going nowhere. Nursing a baby, she bends her head over the child's to protect it from the lightning, covers tiny ears from errant thunder. The infant sucks on regardless of the weather, regardless of the constant sway of the body all around her. She is nursing a mother. To do that, you feed off her and nothing else.
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