We had no space for children
then. No way could we spare change
from spent salaries, or time,
or the middle of our bed,
or the rise of things, the youth
of things, stuff, the way all was
tough, how we’d curse on the top
of our voices, fuck fever
pitch regardless of plywood
walling out neighbors. Something
so small would mean everything
around it had to be hushed
like hair, old, scheduled, and soft.
Rather, we thrusted ourselves
into love, love. A fleeting
therapeutic, blinding, mad,
binding, I was ever so
sober to halt,
shower your chest with my milk.
You loved it, but once it came
out black, blacker than the night
without streetlights, streaking
cars, blacker than hair or eyes,
lashes so black that I feared
those drops were holes through your skin,
your heart, bed sheets, the fabric
of earth, right through the abyss
of space on the other side
of the world, horrible how
nothing could stare back from breasts,
how it bored through the core and
negated its fires, with no
thought, with nonchalance, stepping
against earth’s ether or chest
of woman like down a cigarette it
crushed without ever lighting.
Anxious to salvage what was
our basis before a word
came to pass, I pressed your breasts
together, for there, between
nipples looking away, lay
patches of black frilled with veins.
I sought to keep them in, shut
my eyes to find a lesser
darkness, and fished for a clenched
You pushed my hands away:
prodigal rorschach blossomed
from your unraveling chest.
What did you see? Please? You know
what I saw: not your face, not
mine, but of both as shadow.
Then black milk crawled your midline
gutter, filling your belly
hole, overflowing, then down,
lost in your thick pubic choke.