Edited for clarity and cohesion.
... she cries,
obviously. Her hands, slim-fingered
and pale, so unlike yours, delicate
as bone-china, fist over; the rage
of an empty stomach, roaring
as a fire from her lips, two petals
that part to emanate such flames.
When a baby hasn't been fed, her
eyes, so wholly yours, tincture of
glee in that tumultuous hazel sea,
at your bird-nest-hair and the raven-
wings resting under your eyes,
((please baby please don't cry)).
When a baby hasn't been fed, when
she comes to your breast, her mouth
closes so close to your heart, each
swallow timed to your pulse: so fed,
her milky lips still tremble, whispering
a confession, an unworded prayer.
When a baby hasn't been fed, you
know: no one will ever need
you as nakedly as her.