Rachel

In the empty spaces underneath her skin,

does she feel the phantom flutter of small feet

before remembering: this is not that fullness,

but only hunger, exploring its newfound room

to stretch and rumble? Now it is her breasts

that are swollen tight and round. Scalding milk

splashes on her belly's tender folds.

In a world that throbs with hunger, is there none
to drink from her and satisfy this ache?

How is it my own arms are so full?
In the blur of motion and need, there's hardly room

for thoughts to rumble, rearrange, but still,

through the spaces in between the clamor, cries

from Ramah work their way beneath my skin.