Our single breasts droop with milk for no one.
Our motherhoods are cold and translucent
with no mouths to suckle us warm and dry.
Our single shells are pregnant nuclei.
We have only nine seconds to ponder.
In our fall through sleet from virgin to crone,
we whip through hallucinations of love
inviting us to squeeze and pour forth cups
from our nipples to tiny thirsty mouths.
Nameless, we are ready to name our own
and pray that they will all be remembered.
Our nine seconds lullaby elegies.
Our clear-eyed milk spills across the pavement.
Dreamers like us have no such place on earth.
Raymond Luczak is the author and editor of 19 books. Recent titles include The Kinda Fella I Am: Stories and The Kiss of Walt Whitman Still on My Lips. His deaf gay novel Men with Their Hands won first place in the Project: QueerLit Contest 2006. His work has been nominated nine times for the Pushcart Prize. A playwright, he lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. http://raymondluczak.com.