Andy,
I too have a poem which ends nearly on the same last lines/idea as yours
but the topic is entirely different. I'll copy my poem here for you.
Romania, Christmas, 1989
You've known this street for 30 years,
its people, its colours, smells and sounds.
Tonight you hear a new sound
a machine gun,
in your street,
as if they're shooting a movie.
Your mind, still working, tells you
infra-red machine guns
detect body heat in the dark,
so you put the baby
down on the carpet
and cover him with
your body,
gently, not to crush him,
so he can breath,
and hope the guns will be fooled
into detecting just one heartbeat,
and if bullets should come
they'll stop in your body
and spare your baby.
The machine guns break
from time to time
and the silence is even
more frightening.
Babies' cries can be heard
a long way in this silence,
and those people shoot
in the direction of noises,
but your baby is now asleep.
You know the feeding schedule.
Every 6 hours offer both breasts, alternately,
no intermediary feedings between regular times
or at night, so as not to spoil his appetite
both modern pediatricians
and old midwives
agree on this,
but you still offer your breast
when he wakes up,
so he doesn't cry
in the silence.
But your milk's just gone sour
and the baby turns his nose in disgust.
Then your milk stops flowing altogether.
On the morning news
you see a morgue,
in other streets other mothers
who have instinctively shielded
their children with their bodies
have been less lucky,
modern technology bullets
through one body and kills two
at a time.
They only shoot after dark.
Next night, not knowing any better,
you hide in the darkest corner of your home
and you cover your baby again
with your body
and offer your milkless breast
as a pacifier
and try not to think
about anything.
Next morning you don't watch the news.
The milk van and the bread van
arrive at the corner deli
and neighbours you've always known
go out in the street.
They don't talk to each other.
Then there's night and day again
in your street
and you count days
by the nights.
Ioana Petrescu
