Bird

I stand in front of the mirror—
my nipple nesting
in this puckered flesh
looks away.
A frightened beak
tucked under a wing,
it looks for comfort
in the throbbing
of its own breast.

My fingers trace
the twig-like scar
branching
from the hollow
of my arm—

a fine white ridge,
barely a ripple
in the skin
where the knife
slit, flicked
out the string
of poison pearls,
plunged in under the nipple
where the flint-hard
lump lay embedded
in reluctant flesh.
page 147 I cup that savaged
breast, that broken-winged
bird, stroke its feather
skin, feel its trembling
through my fingers—

let it fly.