Still Life with Nursing Bra

Fall open, unfold me. Hook and eye
undone with one hand, fingers that know
their way now in the dark. You contain
me: underwire circling my breasts in
half-bangle like the copper bracelets
lemniscating wrists of women who’ve
never worn bras, never held back
their multitudes. You of the hidden
crab-apple bruise yellowing on my
chest. You of her ecstasy, eyes rolled
back in her head, hands in her sweat-
damp hair. You: milk that rivers down my
skin, shimmering of hunger, the want
of a wet mouth. Nursing bra—black, nude,
electric orange and lace-trimmed, tucked in
the back of the drawer or hung dangling
from a doorknob—I once fumbled
with you, stale of the dentist’s lobby
cut by a thin mewling that made us all
shiver, the waiting room’s terrified
ripple as I struggled with the clasp
that kept me from spilling open. Instead,
the leaking through, a sticky flower
blooming down my chest, until I wrenched
you free, flapping and fearless, one
wing taking flight from my breast.