Standing in a hot shower, I squeeze and my nipple
becomes a network of duct, still ripe
like the seeds of a strawberry clustered
in all directions. I have to get it out,
jets of milk aimed at the shower wall,
the longest thread near the middle
like anything else, the blackhead under
the armpit with the pus that keeps
coming, the nexus of seeds ripped from
the eggplant’s core—orgasmic—to release
these pearls of calcified milk, the nights
I wake to the sound of nurses outside
my room, the pulse-ox snorting its alarms,
melted under hot water, shot
into the world.
