A Tongue in the Mouth of the Dying

Breasts

BREASTS It happens quickly. Two pulpy, pink beads swathed in skin soft as calf leather rise, unfurling like a turquoise spring. They are curious, pushy. Not long before they take the reins, manlike, no highway too bitter, no hand too rough. Such resilient cups, though raw against the scruff. Most will tame themselves, humble, swoop in a seasoned bow, learn to fill up and empty out, calming children, men. They’ll wear, wilt— sweet as burnt milk. The tarnish can be rubbed away. I leave mine. Evidence of easing down the horse. 37 ...