XV
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MOTHER'S BLOOD
In utero, I sucked my fingers ‘til the skin purpled, blistered. The midwife who peeled open my fists said, “Good luck to your titties, Mama.” “Honey, you have the nicest tits I’ve seen on a skinny girl,” said the man with face tattoos who assessed my bare chest. I detested my breasts’ heft, uneven slopes, wide areolas-- just like my mother’s. Her nipples cracked, oozed, crusted —crushed by the suction. I branded her with scars white as my milk teeth. He drew bullseyes on either side of my nipples, clamped the targets between forcep O’s perfectly sized to pluck baby corn from a pot of boiling water. I often pried her from sleep with my hungry wails. One night I bit, drew blood. She never breastfed again. I laid back, the six-inch needle glinted. “Breathe, honey.” He thrust in the metal; I moaned. |