For two weeks in Paris
I follow this routine:
Morning, wash the skin
Until it glows – soft and luminous.
Afternoons, remove the soft armor
The lace about my breasts,
So heavy and swollen
With the love of you.
The pharmacienne sells me
A balm of chamomile and clover,
One marbled drop for each breast,
Their expanding lucent white
tight sore rosebud of nipple.
Each afternoon you come to me,
A child addicted to their chocolatey-
Sweetness. You nose your way,
Settle in, and suckle forty-beats
A minute to take what is yours
By some miracle it comes;
The first thin milk, sweeter
And thicker by the day.
This we were born to.