Harvest Moon

After the midnight feeding,
breath sweet and easy with milk,
she curls into a comma,
like an embryo still in the night,
while slowly letting go,
I creep across the cool floorboards
back to the big bed.
He holds the duvet open
as chilled, pressing against
the warm bowl of his stomach,
I remember my mother’s sachets of rice
wrapped hot in clean white handkerchiefs,
how she rolled the steaming bundles
round and redolent with jasmine
over my bellyaches,
the comfort of that yielding heat,
and turning my ear to him,
I hear the faint murmur
of his resting heart,
and beyond us, faceless,
tumescent with light,
the moon is yellow as a sun
over the high swollen tide;
it burns through the window
my unclosing eyes.