It could be your breasts in my mirror
peeking from beneath my new brassiere
one size smaller, fits just right
filling out the ribbed satin
with a sheen, a fullness, a body
I hadn't known two years ago.
Leaning over the sink, I catch myself
in your stance: shoulders hunched,
elbows out, relaxed and ready
I've colonized you.
Remember those moments in play when I
latched to your neck
and sucked, and sucked,
until I felt your essence rising, bright wine,
from the spot?
It was not play.
And you took from me, too:
A bumper sticker. Silver filigree.
Blood. Tears. A purple bruise
rising from the crown of my nose.
What else would you have taken
if I had let you?