Explaining It

The counter-girl at the chemist,
blonde, pretty as a paper chain,
sucks her pigtail idly
as I try to decide. The shelf
is a field of plugs designed
to quiet screaming infants
when the nipple aches too much.

So many different ways to fill a mouth.

As she bags my blue choice
and taps in the price, I imagine
her bouncing on top of me,
joyfully pink, her breasts
slapping her ribs, each calling
"Catch me".
The second my cries grow too gutteral,
echoing into the stairwell,
she jams in the teat of the dummy
and the money shot is hostage-muffled.

Back in the clothed world,
she hands me change, calls me "Sir",
goes back to her hair, is merciful
in not acknowledging
my third visit in three days.

And yes, she's my mother
and it's my mother
and the stars are my fucking mother.