3 a.m. bottle feeding
In a room with no view.
The sound of pouring rain
Drums on the ceiling like impatient fingers on a diner counter
Waiting
My breasts no longer tingle with needles.
They do not pour,
They do not sprinkle.
Irrational sensations of inadequacy
Storm away in my chest
As the rhythm of rain
And the fullness of formula
Lull my baby back to sleep.