Elsie One Monday Morning 1948.

The baby cried 

from the farther room,

a loud annoyed cry

as if she had neglected

the baby’s wishes,

even though 

she had to guess

what they were, 

from hunger 

to a filthy nappy

or want of comfort 

and warmth. 

She stubbed out

the cigarette 

and went to the bedroom

where the baby cried from

and lifted the baby up

into her arms

and held it in her arms

kissing the head.

She sat on the bed

and unbuttoning her blouse

and bra brought

the baby’s lips to her breast 

where it fed greedily.

Contentment and sucking

filled the air, pushing

away briefly any further

thought or meaning, 

except this one deed

she to become the means

for the baby to feed.