Goodnight you scattered breast pads
Goodnight greasy lanolin cream
Goodnight broken, 4000-pound, breast pump machine.
Goodnight to the hideously named “Udder Cover”
Which smells disturbingly of gruyère
Goodnight to it twisting ’round my neck, ’til I am short of air.
Goodnight to the gawking weirdos
Goodnight disapproving clucks
Goodnight to sharing my nipples with the patrons of Starbucks.
Goodnight to counting cocktails, and drinking guilt mixed with vermouth.
Goodnight to worrying if my milk is already 200 proof.
Goodnight awkward nursing pillow
In theory, you have a genius design
Though you mainly balanced Thai take out — very rarely, my baby’s spine.
Goodnight to the dark, telltale circles spreading on my shirt
Goodnight to my idiot husband calling one breast Ernie, the other Bert.
Goodnight my no longer infant, for it’s time for a big boy bed.
Goodnight to our 4 a.m. bonding, where I checked Facebook o’er your head.
“The boobs are sleeping,” I announce.
And you examine my face at this lie.
Then you wistfully whisper, “Goodnight, boobs.”
And give an accepting sigh.