In Threes

Supernumerary nipples arise in one
or two percent of North Americans,
below or beside the common pair. Lesions,

moles, and other rings of pigmentation
mean witches’ paps to edgy villagers,
who fantasize that sundry unclean

spirits suck them. A godly girl’s averse
to excess. A witch is a woman who
wants more than they think she deserves.

My wicked neighbor sets down her Merlot
with a twitch. “Here, I can show you mine.”
She hoists her shirt. “My husband has one, too—

it means we’re meant for each other.” The wine-
dark third nipple winks from the shade.
I offer my dad’s bonus kidney, a find

he owes to the navy, and, before sunset fades,
my uncle’s extra ball. Though book-talk fails,
we turn a few leaves in a masquerade

of reading before we sweep away. The frail
stars burn us as we disperse, each crone
to her mirror, a dim pond. My breasts sail

there, moony, routine. Two nipples, alone.

*Lesley Wheeler lives in Lexington, Virginia, where she is Professor of English at Washington and Lee University. Her poems have appeared in AGNI, Prairie Schooner, StorySouth, and other publications.