Babygorilla blows bubbles on my belly. He bites my knee. He opens his jaw as widely as he can and bears down on my face—biting, sucking—leaving my nose, my mouth, my cheek sopping wet. He pulls my hair. He smacks my cheek. He reaches out for and fingers my earring, pushing my face to the side so he can examine it more closely. He pushes his fingers into my eyeball over my closed eyelid, rolling it over and over again, back and forth. He runs his finger along my eyelashes, pushing up the closed eyelid. He hangs onto my nose, staring up at me. And he feeds. He feeds, he feeds, he feeds, he feeds.

I blow bubbles on Babygorilla’s belly. I put my finger into his warm, soft mouth and sweep both sides, looking for objects he’s placed in there, his eyes round and wondering. I hold him up and wash him clean, directing water around the sink to rinse the remains of his meal into the drain. I clean the fold where the back of his ear meets his head until the cheesy smell of him is gone, looking forward to finding it again by the end of the next day. In the morning I look into his face, seeing its shape superimposed on its yesterday and its tomorrow.

And I feed him. I feed, I feed, I feed, I feed.