Mammillae

Hot and weepy, they are given up. He blows to cool them,
just as Saint Peter restores Agatha's breasts
by pursing lips to scabs, nose to cleavage.
All this dedication God
gives. The divine surgeon, molder of matter,
keeps track of every bit eaten, lost, taken.

Of this long line of women, photos are taken
before and after grace. All of them
wish nothing will matter
more than their dream of different breasts.
DuPont made silicone for electrical insulation. God
will think of this, this cleavage

from him, how we become other and other. Cleavage,
the elemental divide, the new surface taken
in the sure hand of God
who knows flesh, knows them
as bread, bells, blind eyes, breasts
severed for the sake of severance. This matter

is considered by doctors, skilled and matter-
of-fact. The patients and their cleavage
wear brilliant white dresses, and their breasts
now heal with plant-like intelligence. Agatha's taken
by surprise. Even with her faith, just look at them!
Breathtaking, each more beautiful than the next. God,

how pink the scars. Agatha, with pincers, eyes God
and the ones below who've taken the matter
into their own hands. This is how it is for them,
recuperating, almost their own invention, this cleavage.
Here they are. Here they wish to be taken
care of, seriously. They count blessings, breasts,

one, two, one, two, one: in hills, clouds, reactors. Breasts
will follow us through our days. God
will mark each with a crinkle, a mole, a lump taken
out. And the malignant, the little hard matter
in armpit one Sunday shower, that cleavage
God remarks, too. The inventor of vacancies, he knows them

well, being absence himself. Matter mends-- gets taken.
Agatha offers her breasts on a plate. God
smiles on this cleavage, his perfect stroke.

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