Ancient myth tells of Amazons
who ‘pinched’ off a breast
to improve their prowess in battle
With deadly accuracy, their arrows sped,
unimpeded and chest high,
piercing the enemy at their weakest points.
Do you reach out, my love, for a warm inviting mound
and come up empty,
your hand hovering, forgetting, uncertain,
and finally settling on the nippled side?
A decision was made, as then,
to sever for the greater good.
Did those warriors mourn their loss?
Was their sleep disturbed by regret?
I sleep knowing the enemy.