dead ones fly

i left my seven-month-old boy at home with the cat today. i removed my bra and top before i left. my son started crying at the sight of my breasts--i hadn't fed him in hours prior to my leaving. my nipples swelled and lightly spattered sequence-sized drops. my body wanted to feed him.

i left and didn't lock the door. i left the oven on, the iron on, the water running, the pot on, the curler plugged in. i left the windows open.

several hungry and hateful eyes landed on my skin while i was on the subway. when i got off, a group of junior high schoolers pushed their faces against the glass, fingers as wolves in their pockets.

i received several more disbelieving stares, bitter kisses to teeth, blushing men, women and children. a dog that a man was walking wanted only to sniff my ankle.

i walked into a grocery store, the air inside was cooler than it was outside. my shoulders hunched, my nipples hardened. my chest was wet; i hadn't stopped lactating since i'd left. my boy must still have been crying.

my boy must still be crying.