"Some Thumb"
She was onstage
as a nation of spectators
thundered with boredom. Hungry.
They craved her. On occasion,
she wore white cotton-lady-summer-
gloves, to prevent some fool
from ruining her manicure. Never
a quickie. No, citizens always
prolonged their suckling.
Licked her, savored
the slick lacquer and ridged
beds, nipped cushioned
tips, filled cavities,
gaps, massaged their gums,
brushed with her prints.
And she thought: I'll offer
a breast. They could feed,
pretend they're feasting,
milk encrusted upper
lips, their bellies full.
But instead, they preferred
her thumb. So, she sat
there, mute as a blanket,
because she couldn’t talk
without moving her hands.
© 2008 Brenda Morisse
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