Breasts Are A-okay
barely-B cups are not the stuff of
legend. They tend to glide
the plates, like eager breast panini.
glass descends, compresses, tightens; I look down
see―a truck-stop-size flesh pancake, feast
for radiological eyes. Images rise up
fly. First training bra, first underwire,
halter, tube top, sundress. First male caress, first
mouth—Hold real still, she says—I am topless,
boob in a vise, and she reminds me not
move. More flashbacks, please. My first chest press,
pecs that hold the girls up
You can breathe again, hee hee.
minutes more to hear the score: I can keep them
year. More gravity, a touch
depravity before a machine feels
up again. Firmer yes, but when I was young
breasts had not been sung.