In the feral country of nipples,
where she-wolves raise
their pups to howl unashamedly
at the moon,
many many men,
unconsciously ensnared
in puritanical roots,
fear, scorn and revile
the mystery of the female nipple,
its organic promise of milk and eternity
too vagrantly radiant
for many many men’s eyes to bear,
hence the blotting, fuzzing
and other control-tested methods
used to impair the nipple
and render it a pariah and taboo,
yet through it all,
nature runs its inviolable course,
with the rose assuring the areola:
A nipple is a nipple is a nipple—
and that’s the gospel truth
from the limitless mouth
of God herself.

This pair of breasts inked by Anais Rumsfelt, which I received as part of her delightful V-Day tradition, when she graciously dispenses breasts of all styles and sizes via the World Cup (Taos, NM) in celebrating the sacredness of the female human body.