SER, written July, 1999

T. Dean Adams, “Writing Your Life as A Woman”

My
breasts are like the tides, full with milk- the sweet white drink of
gold that sustains the life we have brought into this world. The waves
wash ashore into the little naked mouth until the surge of my milk lets
down. Sometimes it is too much, and she coughs and sputters. Mostly,
she drinks it in and her eyelids get heavy and she drifts into a
magical state of dreamtime with the music and stage set by my milk. I
love it when she sleeps and just nurses on and off as if seeking
reassurance that I am one with her. She pulls back and her little
tongue quivers and resists as she pulls my nipple deep into her throat
for comfort. The feeling is pure and maternal. Then the tides recede
and my breasts sag with an empty swing, and I think about the next
tide, when they are full to touch. What a gift women are given with
their breasts, the most maternal of all creation is the bosum of mother
earth.