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.