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Michele Parker Randall

Would that our breasts were like oysters.
Briny, lustrous. Maybe not filter feeders,
but that they could meditate on the grit
of suicidal cells that will become the nucleus
of a pearlescent globe. Gestational, they’ll form
and form, and in a few months pop out a pearl
or two. Look what I made. What have you done?
Would that we could spit them out at will
instead of the needed doctor and blade,
the twist and pop that releases muscle and liquor,
and leaves us gasping open and unhinged.