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GOSPEL When a breast is round and hard as Mary’s was so often in the Renaissance, it aches for a small mouth to relieve it of a saved-up sweetness. The baby cries, and the nipple waits, if it can, for the tongue, or if not, as a few painters notice, it sprays its lines of milk into the mouth of air. Maddened by milksmell, the baby roots, latches on, works skin to skin in passionate nursery with the mother— born glutton for the good, warm news.  ...

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