"Milk Drunk" A poem

After his last drop, I ask silently
Do you prefer my bare skin to my cotton shirt?
His soft cheek answers my question
as it slowly settles onto my covered bosom
and his left hand (the one that was born with his head)
curls in for the ready -
a contented sleep
that consists of
deep sighs, quick and slow breaths,
sweet fleeting smiles,
spontaneous stretches, patriotic salutes,
and scary startles
that almost,
just almost,
wake him up.
But all this is expected,
the usual.
It is his milk drunk laugh
that gives me pause,
keeps me looking down in sheer wonder.
I created that.
Of all things I wanted to create -
a novel, a poem, a photograph-
he is the one thing I needed to.
And now that he's here,
I know why.