Pendula of destiny,
Metronomes of doom,
Conspiracy of conical dimension.
If I could, I’d Emily you away—
A white-cloaked death for breasts.
Twin tips cantankerously emerging
from the continental shelf,
Fruit fattens for the eating,
the glutton spreads a seed, a self.
O to be a common slug,
a sleek and tender finger
Gliding forward, forward in the world.
I dream you are growing them,
a woman-body, writhing wickedly beside me
I enter and displace the
My breasts erupt—
—molting, misplaced magma,
a Missing Mount St. Helen’s
Mimeographed and Mimeographed—
Tandem craters from which seeps
my own Hejinian cowboy.
Sex of sexless
I emerge a caterpillar.
Green and silent,
in straight primordial lines.
This poem originally appeared in a our black-tie-only affair, The Ampersand Review, Vol 3.
Ashley Anne Gamell is delighted to be the author of this issue’s obligatory breast-centric poem. A recent graduate of Middlebury College, Ashley now lives in Brooklyn with one composer and two cats and spends her days gardening with children. This is her second appearance in The Ampersand’s pages.