I bathed that little bud before it turned to breast.
Shoemaker's children of love, we two,
you took what nurturing I had to give
as though your due. Who knew
the day would come that breast would turn to foe,
an exercise in nightmare wrapped across your chest?
I chased away your nightmares when we two
were children of a foe made placable at nightmare cost.
Infusions of no lesser love may save you now,
consulting demons, seeking something lost.
Copyright © 1999 Miryam Ehrlich Williamson. All rights reserved.