Monday, February 04, 2013
Sitting nude, lotion in hand
I stare forlornly at my crepe paper stomach.
Should I count the crisscross train tracks
Traversing the wide expanse of my middle?
Or would the nighttime stars be an easier task?
Such a symbol of nurture and matronly invitation
To curl your head and suckle
From mother earth's bounty.
A badge of sacrifice signifying the den
From which you were once evicted.
Clad in my pillow-soft chainmaille apron
I am protected from advances,
From my own lack of inhibitions.
Protection at a price.
If only I could lift the strings from my neck.