Back Next Tits

I never had my mother's tit
Only a soggy Indian-rubbered nipple
Over-boiled, ungiving, and smelly
Attached to a glass bottle,
Overheated, unyielding and hot.
The milk too much white
Smelled of cow's breath.
It was stringy with cow's saliva.
Still I drank it
And remembered from a previous re-incarnation
So that upon my soul
A smile could still rest.
I was in the Holocaust
And drank from the bad tit
And was poisoned with revenge
And came out swearing hatred
And yet my friend who drank
From the same milk,
The same black cloth nazied milk
Had a sweet look upon his face.
As if beyond this tit
There was another grace,
A different nipple with a different face.
When he left from the very same place
He felt the opposite of disgrace,
So despair for him
Not all his life
Did chase.

Irwin R. Shaw - 1987