the doctor’s pale face and closed eyes
so close I can see the cracks in her lipstick
hovers over my upturned breast the way the moon
floats above its reflection in the lake

smooth dry fingers probe and circle, pause;
she is working deep
a woman’s whole life
old or young may be felt through her breasts
those good soft hills with the treacherous stones
sliding beneath the fingers

                     difficult to get one’s bearings            here
                     yet so much depends on it

this body belongs to earth
but the breast is pulled by the moon

because it is a wave glittering and leaping
out of dailiness’ dark ocean
because it dances beneath the hand like warm water
because white light pours from it

because we have taken what did not belong to us
roads sliced through the breasts of mountains
in order to drag trees head-down from their place in the sun
in order to make paper, pale as the moon
covered with pictures of goddess women
and their breasts
selling us back what was always ours

because even the moon now
littered, scarred, poked-at

because we feel deep longing for where we came from
and for our safe return there
because it was always ours