Apophatic Knowledge

I bring him toward me 
but he fights against me, 
his small, sharp fingernails dig 
into my skin.
I refuse to give in 
to his demands, 
ignore his hurtful 
bullying screams, 
his tiny hands, their abuse. 
The moon peeks through the curtain,
the wooden chair squeaks as I rock 
back and forth
back and forth 
but hug him close—
head to milk-soaked chest, 
hand to strawberry-blonde hair.