who sees me frenzied
charging to the back
of the women's bathroom
looking for a place
to nurse my newborn son;
she who asks
what you looking for
and doesn’t hesitate
to direct me to the museum's
Administrative offices, whispers
turn left when you get out
the elevator, go down
just a little and you'll find
a family restroom.
To the cleaning lady – short
like my Big Mama, but slight
like my sister, chocolate
like my aunties, with hair
pulled neatly in a ponytail
standing behind a trash cart
emptying the handicap stall;
she who tells me, go on up
I'll be there in a few.
To the cleaning lady
whose knock on the restroom
door startles me, whose firm
voice breaks the silence surrounding
me and my newborn son suckling
soft and secure; she who says
you in there honey?
I wanna make sure you ok.