acorn as areola
(Published in Not Ghosts But Spirits vol. 5 Querencia Press)
he roots on my right breast
hungry and wanting
I know the milk is coming
electricity trickles through fat and lymph
compasses my areola
drips into my bra
a crop circle in the cotton
seen from space
patterns communicating
what is already in us
mountains melting to
papillary ridges
annual rings
echoing
when I was a child I
would climb trees speak
to the fairies living in the
bark imagine I was an
Irish peasant with a tan
apron an English servant
walking the moors
always servitude and
magic
now, I wipe halos into the the kitchen counters
breathe fractals into the early morning air
contractions ( a strawberry burst )
pain and joy as he crowned
and sunlight
there is that
as an acorn holds the whole of the tree
sprout to decay
he moves to the left breast
roots
and eats
