Motherhood...This Poem is HAWT

A week after our child was born,you cornered me in the spare roomand we sank down on the bed.You kissed me and kissed me, my milk undid itsburning slip-knot through my nipples,soaking my shirt. All week I had smelled of milk,fresh milk, sour. I began to throb:my sex had been torn easily as cloth by thecrown of her head, I'd been cut with a knife andsewn, the stitches pulling at my skin--and the first time you're broken, you don't knowyou'll be healed again, better than before.I lay in fear and blood and milkwhile you kissed and kissed me, your lips hot and swollenas a teen-age boy's, your sex dry and big,all of you so tender, you hung over me,over the nest of the stitches, over thesplitting and tearing, with the patience of someone who finds a wounded animal in the woodsand stays with it, not leaving its sideuntil it is whole, until it can run again.