butter river’s boob baby

Long legs blossoming out of the car and out bursts

the casual bliss of woman, big bosomed, proud,

she walks into the house tits-first – bright eyes blazing,

hands like guns on her hips, her belly fat, a bowl

of caviar – and about to get her period. In a cool tragedy

of hormonal delusion she spots a single wild egg on

the windowsill: light, pure, plucks it, clutches it, and o

what an idea! Lo and behold – she nurses it between

her breasts. How brilliant. How beautiful. How Brigitte

Bardot. How to leverage cleavage like a 1970s porno,

soft chest. Well loved. Warm sweat. A heartbeat of a nest.

An incubation mutation made from a bra’s nexus.

She carries it everywhere, all day and night, until

what matter swirls and slides inside – dies. And she

never meant to nurture the non-viable. Only to give

her body away. Hoping to push her pulpy feelings

onto something with a pulse, past empty wombs, bloodful

and burgeoning and through to the lonely, living, sin-giving,

love-makers of this world.