the lactation consultant who came
to show me how to hook
up the portable breast
pump had prosperous
brown hair—and a red triangle of cloth
in her right breast smock pocket.
she smiled through the whole
three minute meeting,
through the whir and beat
of the machine
that would vacuum your milk
out of me.
but without your bouquet, your face,
i wasn’t giving up
anything. the cone cup covering
my swollen teat felt like a hat
some unselfconscious sports fan
or mardi gras spring- breaker
flashing the floats for beads—
plastic balls strung by the millions
Fat Tuesday’s only linger, a forgettable
binge.
and me? me, i’m so FAT i can barely
walk, the fluid under my skin
puffing my feet into water
balloons, I want to pop them
so my shoes fit. instead
i sit by a drafty window and keep
pumping
first right, pull pull pull a drop or two
then left, pull pull pull a drop or two
then right again. then left.
not enough to paste your little lips
puckered far far away in that untranslatable
wasteland, our weir broken, the slough
of us afloat, the tide receiding
wasteland, our weir broken, the slough
of us afloat, the tide receiding
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