Remi Seamon

The Nipples are the Eyes of the Face

after Bimini Bon Boulash

For some people the greatest mystery of life is the spaghetti
we turn into on the other side of blackholes, but I choose to believe
it is what Napoleon and I both hide under our shirts and this isn’t
a metaphor these are nipples, and they belong to a man named Bonaparte
and I choose to believe they were two pink discs
of braille and that maybe (probably) he liked them pinched
in embarrassing situations, which is the blackhole at the center
of every history lesson as my teacher lifts his arm to write 1769
on the board, revealing his great manuscripts of sweat so what
I’m really trying to say is we’d all be a lot closer to spaghetti if
we listened to Bimini, even if they were silicon, if we realized
they were right about my music teacher when I was nine and my nipples
were negligible, the day she wore a red shirt revealing all two
of her secrets, and she placed the delicious toad of the word bra
and less in our throats and when we opened them on command
it hopped out and sat in great piles of giggling on the floor and her face
turned the colour of her top, when really we should’ve worried a little more
about what we spend all our time hiding with buttons and zippers
and pull-overs, when my neighbour’s dog walks around all day
everyday in her birthday suit, which is better and more fun
than my dad’s, because she has at least twelve
nipples swaying everywhere she goes, so who says
we get shame and dogs don't and really who draws
the line between Napoleon’s nipples and mine.