My breasts and I wait
among their breasts and them
in the lime green, waffle-print clinic.
Each pair - smooth, role-playing satchels
concealed behind frumpy and floral prints.
Our oblong frill, tassel.
A May-shaped, lapidary landscape.
Wait and wonder picasso between
the pictures we hold of ourselves.
I imagine her breasts
had only ever known
a carpenter’s hands.
Cupped and caught
by roped, yet nimble fingers.
Beneath tawny-colored panty hose,
varicose veins map out
the lengths she went for him.
Another - after retiring from years of flippancy,
enlisted hers in procreation’s boob brigade.
Decorative pillows turned canteens
for the miniature Minutemen about her.
I like to recall mine the spring of 88’
resembling the triumphant buds of sumac
that scaled our suburbs. Summers later -
marveled at by boyfriends
beneath slow-moving fans,
in dimly-lit rooms.
And now, how my son’s lips pad-lock
on nipple, then nipple
these mere morns.
A pin-prick of light cuts through the curtains
as a clip-boarded woman breaches
this soundless sonata.
The glare is enough
to ignite each of our
own private hells.
words: Kathrine Steiger, Massachusetts/Germany (more & more)
image: Jeff Crouch, Texas (more)