By Justine C. Tajonera
They titillate and arouse,
they sell cars, beer, and tuna.
They give life, they give children
a valley of comfort and soothe their cries.
I imagine kings, popes, presidents and prime
ministers once helpless children in their
mothers' arms, cradled at midnight,
rocked in warm embraces.
They are covered up obsessively
or strategically displayed.
They are painful, bloated, turgid
until they are suckled by a hungry child.
I remember my son with a high fever,
his tiny body wracked with vomiting,
still seeking my breasts even with eyes
closed, even in pain.
There is a language for breasts that
make them fruits or puppies or things.
There is a language for breasts that only
children speak and it is sacred.