Imagine my surprise, a few years ago,
when the tell-tale tingle at my armpit
sprung upon hearing the baby's wail
from across the airport terminal.
Years had passed since I'd last nursed a child
yet heavy with sympathy,
my long-dried ducts yearned to offer solace.
Yesterday, it became increasingly harder to enjoy a summer's day
and its green grass beneath my bare feet
with the relentless phantom let down
leaving my chest full of rage.
This time triggered by the cries of immigrant mothers
their breasts swollen, hard as pits,
aching for the sweet relief
only their babies can bring.