No simile can describe your breasts.

Their perfect shape, as you bend
over my body, is like nothing I can name.

Their white softness is sweeter than any ripe
fruit that ever ran its juice down my chin.

It’s true, I have compared your nipples
to the little roses I bring you every Tuesday,
but no rosebud ever answered my touch.

Perhaps pecan shells or acorns might tell
the rich color of the flesh around your nipples,
but they would not make such an echo
if dropped into the deep well of me.

I have no metaphors for your breasts.

I say only that these lines did not
enter my heart in some moment of reflection,
but while making love to you
this liquid afternoon.