From the Fishouse

Significant appendages can’t take
vacations. And, no flesh-replacement available, sometimes

carbon fiber becomes near-human with use, sometimes a beige lobe of silicone

hardly held by a bra. A newborn,
oblivious to his mothers’ past breast-cancer trauma,
kneads the ordained suckling-place, its offering subtracted
years ago. While the child is present, warm against his source,

the fake breast tries to replace what had to be lost.
Its weight, wholly separate, offers
nothing against destruction—a poor talisman. Sometimes a joke about

ghost limbs, about a whore who faked her shudder, claiming
so good when you wiggle, silent-sighing jeez, get up

inside, it's your nickel. Seeing their reflection in the mirror,
the john saw this stand-in hand him a strap-on and said
irregardless, I’ll be a part of you.