Written by Rachel Woodgate
Milk-spotted moonlight spills on his shell ear—
I sit by the window, stitched and splitting,
my uterus curling like a fist.
He suckles, and we fall — oxytocin, endorphins,
a spell spun from alveolus to areola,
bliss blooming beneath bruises.
Pain, analgesic-sweet, pulses like another heartbeat.
My hearing has cracked open—
every whimper a word, every sigh symphonic.
In the hum of melatonin, I drift between worlds,
mmm—mum...mum...mama...mother...
his breath timed to the tide inside me.
Adrenaline ghosts my veins; I bloom and flush,
still healing, marks spreading like shadows.
And yet — I would leave,
before the crack of me runs through him.
In that hush, I understand why she left—
and I forgive her.
.
Rachel Woodgate divides her time between the UK and a hilltop village in Italy. Her poetry engages with memory, survival, and the restorative power of nature, and her work has appeared in feminist and social conscience journals.