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My Mother's Nipples

I think of them pressed
against the wiry hair of my father's
chest, her breath hot as smoke against his neck,

tongue licking in teasing thrusts.  He grabs
each taut nipple and squeezes those raised
eyes of pink flesh that taste of salt

and sunflowers.  Her nipples 
tingle like bare feet 
walking on wet grass.

I think of him touching her flesh,
a soft canvas I once held in my
puckered mouth, his tongue

dancing over the same delicate skin.  I want
to push them apart, detach these heaving 
bodies that drip my name in their sweat, stop

him from wanting her.
Seeing myself in their glazed
bodies, I want her to hate him.

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