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Brynn Martin My Mother’s Nipples

after Robert Hass

When I undress in our hotel room, I turn my body away from her. She laughs, says she’s seen my body my whole life. With my back to her, I don’t admit I hide my naked from everyone, how I cinch my body in a towel or blanket after sex. I don’t confess. We pretend I’m a virgin at 24. When I tell her I broke my promise made after Sunday School, she stands with her arms crossed. She doesn’t want me to feel judged. I saw my mother naked first when she changed, probably. Her breasts were like mine now, full and heavy in a way that leads to drooping, nipples like raisins but flushed as lips, surrounded

Crab Orchard Review

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