A poem for Aster

[chickpea]

Dependence
By Toma Rye

We made it fourteen months.
Hitting the milestone then
exceeding the expected time
allotted for my breast
and your tongue in dance,
not everyone can dance.

How can half of us be born
with parts for life and all
of us be born with parts to take,
yet still need a teacher for
lessons in rhythm, movement
and tongue ties?

You were a natural.
The luxury's not lost on me
when the hottest commodity
for infants up to one year
depends on dance steps,
source and supply.

I was your one and only.
If I hadn't gotten sick
If I hadn't needed medicine
we'd still be dancing,
dancing you to sleep.