Devour by Eve Croskery

Devour

I run the shower, water hot to wash off the day.
Almost instantly comes the sound
of small palms slapping on cold tiles.

You crawl desperately towards my undressed form,
my body your lighthouse, reach your arms skywards
and I move to scoop you onto my hip

where you deftly flip horizontal,
lunging with open-mouthed urgency
until you find relief in the latch.

Jaw pulses and quivers, hungry fingers grip
into my flesh, milk pools like pearl globes
in the corners of your flared mouth.

Gone is the timid newborn, meowing and reaching
with quiet hands; now you devour me as rivers run
down the curve of my swollen breast, diverting

around suckling lips, pooling in the hollows formed
by our bodies clasped. Your supple shape wraps
around my middle, puckered and soft.

The flowing water turns your hair to kelp,
dark strands swaying and swirling as
you watch me with bold eyes.

Under outstretched hands, I feel your tiny
ribcage, mirroring the arch of my fingers—
rising, falling, rising, falling, as I hold you tight.

Eve Croskery lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her partner and two young children, who are a catalyst for her poetry and creativity. She writes honestly about her experiences of motherhood, exploring both the light and the dark. You can find more of her writing on Instagram @evepoetry_