POETRY
Origins of my Overbite
Mel Connelly

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Celestial in a blue robe, Mother Mary came down to grace

the earth with her breasts exposed. When I took one of her nipples

in my mouth, I swear to God it wasn’t erotic. When she stroked

my hair and rocked, I swear to God, it wasn’t erotic, Lord, no

apotheosis, no saint pricked by needle, no eyes rolled back,

stuck and euphoric for Jesus. 
 

She’d known I’d been deficient of nurturing, 
her heavenly maternal affection, so she moved me to

her other before I reached my limit, stomach round

with wisdom. Gentle. As if she had a daughter. 
The milk fresh, my cheeks red, I fell asleep 
in her lap, sucking my thumb for ages.