the doctor’s pale face and closed eyes so close I can see the cracks in her lipstick hovers over my upturned breast the way the moon floats above its reflection in the lake smooth dry fingers probe and circle, pause; she is working deep a woman’s whole life old or young may be felt through her breasts those good soft hills with the treacherous stones sliding beneath the fingers difficult to get one’s bearings here yet so much depends on it this body belongs to earth but the breast is pulled by the moon because it is a wave glittering and leaping out of dailiness’ dark ocean because it dances beneath the hand like warm water because white light pours from it because we have taken what did not belong to us roads sliced through the breasts of mountains in order to drag trees head-down from their place in the sun in order to make paper, pale as the moon covered with pictures of goddess women and their breasts selling us back what was always ours because even the moon now littered, scarred, poked-at because we feel deep longing for where we came from and for our safe return there because it was always ours
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.