Breasts of cat’s fur and potatoes asleep in the sack,
Whose thoughts if they think them and whose smell
Are the secret subtle meanderings of an insect across a tabletop
In the moments before it crawls in a jar and breathes its last
Under a sugar cube.
Breasts of licorice and sour cabbage, and the dark aquaria of jewelry stores,
Mole-dappled breasts beautiful like the pin-pricked cheeks of criminals on post office walls.
Breasts of rainlight and hazed-over windows
In the silver-splintered shacks of hermits adrift in the woods,
Breasts of sailor’s caps in distant port towns.
Breasts that stand on tiptoe that are long-dark chandeliers
Breasts that are the mouths of gingerbread men that form the sweet letter O,
Whose voice is the voice of a doll but dipped in poison.
Breasts that vanished ages ago together with the horses and clouds that admired themselves in the cobbler’s window.
Breasts dusted with powder, which beneath my caresses tonight are like
The crumbling covers of an old-fashioned science fiction novel
Upon which a double sun the color of champagne rises
above an airless planet.
Breasts pale like preachers’ children with their tongues stuck out,
The kind one wants to twist by the ear
When no one is looking.
This poem originally appeared in Vol. II of The Ampersand Review.