Breast beneath a blouse.
Burrow.
Prim breast, not pointy.
Touch and it bites.
But if you don’t touch, you'll die.
Bargain: Paint a portrait.
Touch only to portray.
There is a deadline.
Deadline. Dead. Line.
Dead without the line,
bold breast’s profile,
but touch that border past the deadline, and—
scald with scale and scab. Seep.
Don’t touch again, then.
But the portraiteer no Pygmalion—
in the poverty of her words,
painted breasts never breathe.
Breastless. Death.
Breastless? Yet—
self-slide a hand down.
Fish around.
Found. Two mounds.
Steady. Solid.
New sound: another’s hand.
Ground where two can stand.
