my breasts–obsolete and no longer milk-heavy–
held no ache to soothe him new-born, 
not my child. it was my arms that knew

him and the ways we carry each other– 
bits of me in him who began in me 
as an egg safeguarded in his mother’s womb 

while within my own, which bore her and another– 
the weight of toting two wearing down
my hip balls into dried flaking bone– 

replaced since but stiff these days from his weight–
nearly too heavy to scoop up with one arm, 
shoulder grinding to lift him to cling to an alloyed hip

        how long could I carry him? how many miles?

                through an apocalypse– 
                a crumbling cyborg holding the future, 
                trodding through ash toward someplace he could name home