The title poem is a poem of several pages composed of several parts and written in long lines. It begins In an hour, I'll be lying on the worn-out, mauve-colored couch/in the 30th month of my psychoanalysis, free associating/on the tables of brassieres in Victoria's Secret, & how/I love to wander there, touching the puce-colored slips of silky polyester,
N spends some time in the lingerie, then her Super-ego rudely jerks her back to the dusty-smelly couch and she claims her feminist persona. Her psyche then wanders over the psychological and historical landscape, musing about breasts in quite startling sensual language. Some examples:
And then there's the miracle of lactating breasts with their stretched nipples/and swollen globes of succulent flesh, the skin thinned at the sides,/raising the blue veins to the surface so it looks like a map./I love breasts fastened into nursing bras with their flip-down/cups, facilitating a jutting-out as hilarious as coarse characters/in a Vegas strip show.
I loved the mounting. My baby mounting the objects of his desire,/and making them run with milk, sucking out the cream, raising the heat and falling back, drunk and gluttonous,/ almost post-coital, on the sweaty, smelly pillow of my flesh.
In her barely literate way, my mother's mother must have meditated/on the dual mysteries of every woman's breasts that Freud, in his genius,/almost ruined: the sweet delight of a baby's nursing, and the harder edges/of the pleasure delivered by a moaning lover's sucking mouth.
It goes on like this, sensually, specifically, pulling no punches for pages. It is highly Freudian, highly oral stage, vacillating between the feminine and the feminist, the psychoanalytic and the psychoanalytically critical throughout. Naturally, I love it.