Leaning back
With her arms
Overhead
No, not like that
Too flat
Stretched out
Only the nipple
Has accent
Like a lone blotch
On canvas
But leaning forward
Ah, yes
There is the art
Of the breast
She shrugs
And pinches her arms
So they fill
On the insides
And unders
Bulging beautifully
Voluptuously
Coming down
To mold itself
In my cupped hand
Like a dewdrop
At blade’s end
Achieves its fullness
Right before
Falling off
Its insides swell
And press
Against the bounds
My baby hand
Might have felt
That fullness
Which is why
My adult appendage
Is now livened
By the very same
In the body
Of this beauty
Who makes me
Want to make her
A mother
Of my own
August 29, 2021 at 12:14PM