Topless at the office like a scandal, I stand otherwise constructed: trousers, polished black shoes, hair a neat crop, the reds of my face muted by beige smear. My affair here is with a machine. I’ll soon hook up with plastic trumpets, turn on my motor, get milked for a baby forty minutes away. But it’s this bare moment before that stuns me, dangling bra-less like half of me is made for spring break gone primal, the other half will write a memo. Is this what it means to be a mother? The self split in two, like the body in labor? Or is this just the tear in humanity, even as we shoulder-pad our denial: always tugging us back to the garden, to the beginning, which wears the same clothing as the end?