Monday, 21 September 2009

First Food

She tugged my darkened nipple
to the back of her throat. That sulky bottom lip,

pleated by milk-heavy breast, curved into swell
of silken cheek. The bald imperfections of her skull.

At night, her smallest breaths grew loud; she snuffled
like a hound rooting for truffles.

Her hand a pale star stretching,
grasping wildly, reaching

into my mouth, worming her thumb
against the slippery warmth of gum.

I licked her fingers, knuckles, nails; laid my lips
against her fat palms. The undeveloped lifelines,

heart-lines mapped with my tongue, breathing
in her sourmilk smell, nipping skin with gentle teeth,

lapping at the gathered folds of flesh on wrists.
She cannot remember any of this.