Weaning: God

It ends as it began:
one pale yellow drop
from my left breast,
the right breast dry.
In the night I think
he looks like a child, like himself,
head halfway under the covers,
green eyes grinning. In the morning,
my head aches. Outside,
it’s New Year’s Day.
A baby cries. Balloons pop.
Each year feels the same
as the one before, he says.
He doesn’t know he’s weaning.
He forgets to ask, talks himself to sleep instead,
his mouth against my elbow.
Last night the moon was sliced
perfectly in half. I thought:
two more weeks
before my next egg pops,
and then
who knows what gifts
what ridiculous joys
the richest milk
the softest babe
please god let’s do it
again
again
again