It is not involving or showing violence and bloodshed 


we perform the deed away from the profound disapproval of men, 

the disgust, 

as if they too did not suckle from  

Mother’s breast.  


The idea has been disseminated on the minds of our culture, 

 watered and grown;  

my breasts are not covered or marked with anything unclean, 

grimy, grubby or filthy, 

but a vessel in which I carry the pure substance of my love.



it is a tragedy,  

the murder of love,  

when the mendacity stretches across the lips of the smiling women, 

the ones without the burden of filth, 

when they lilt the men don’t want to hear the gory details 

of my nursing. 

face baby
Photo by Rasmus Svinding on Pexels.com


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s