Everyone else is asleep. The drapes and the end tables are nodding off too. The only sound is the sucking of milk. I dive into the neat weave of the bassinette, having memorized all the paths. The books are growing droopy in the spine, all turned to page one, everything in the world just beyond arm’s reach. Nighttime again, sliced thin. I am back from a dive on the pelvic floor. The slow, Model T cranking of the female body, one bone grinding on another. The rusty aftertaste of pain. In the julienned night, the only sound is the sucking of the milk. And you— you don’t even know that this tiny fist clamped to your cheek belongs to you.