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Nipple of Light

Klyd Watkins


��We are on a subway car or
railway car or something. My wife
has engaged in spirited, sisterly conversation
with another woman. A girl across from me ...
long brown hair, glowing skin ... bends over her magazine
spilling a tease of exquisite cleavage. She must feel my eyes
on her for she sits up and turns her face to the side
and smiles that slight, sly, all knowing, all forgiving
smile we all know. Then ... lord help me! ... she
leans to place her magazine on the floor, flashing
me deep down where the solid alive geometry narrows
toward nipples in shallow shadow. She
sits up. We smile formally, innocently.
Then ... is this happening?! ... she bends to pick
the magazine up again!
��I get an urgent need to pee
and I am excited that I must pass close to her
and I feel some guilt at this subtle, involuntary
betrayal. The girl must have seen my eyes
plan the route for when I stand up she has passed
already smoothly into the hall to the bathrooms.
When I open the men’s room door sure enough she
is in there. With no subtlety she holds the neck
of her shirt wide so I can see down to one
of her nipples, thick like a thumb, flat on top
like a mesa, pink bullseye in pale aureole
��but I just barely glimpse it before
it begins to glow. First the flesh fissures
leak light from within, geography becoming geology,
then as the glowing grows brighter the black berry swirls
fuzz. She is taking her top off completely now I know from
her peripheral arm motion and the shadow crossing
her chest ... but when the quick eclipse has passed
I still see only the one light ... maybe my eyes
are crossed ... one light ... it brightens more ... it’s like
a moon now ... brightens more ... it is a sun flash
on chrome ... then I am dislodged from that consciousness
and whether I sat there on the toilet seat oblivious
or traveled far in blood canoes I cannot say.






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