Sonnet in the Shape of a Breast

A pain uncoils its little head—
somewhere under the skin, above the nipple 
which now wears a darker, softer nub. To think 
of the mouths that rooted there and found 
their way to sating—the way their eyes 
closed as they filled and filled, until their jaws 
went slack and the body's limbs swooned 
into that heavy sleep between feedings. 
Of course I knew my body could never 
be a tent pulled taut over the field of my own 
unfettered longings; could never be a well 
that wouldn't run out of sweet water. Now
it simply takes my hand and cups it there: round
as a moon with bone-white coves and valleys.