by Kim Dower
I want to take this opportunity
to thank my breasts for being
such good sports, still perky
after so many let downs, still
happy to meet new people,
willing to try new things.
When they first arrived, way before
my friends had theirs, we had some fun
jumping up and down on my bed, lying
on my side to feel them squish together,
the miracle of cleavage. I’d imagine
I was Ann-Margaret in Bye Bye Birdie,
hold my pink princess phone,
watch them in the mirror watch me
as I flirted with a pretend boy-friend.
They tormented Mr. Johnson, my pervy
flute teacher, were felt up by Angel
at Phil’s Pizza on Broadway, took me
to bed at night crying to be touched.
They hadn’t a clue how far we’d go together—
how many padded bras I’d shake them into,
release them from. There was that scare
when I was twenty – an overnight at Doctor’s
Hospital, anesthesia, biopsy, stitches, pressure
bandage covering my left nipple like an eye patch,
damp with sweat that long, humid summer.
But that was that; only a wisp of a scar remains,
pale as a thinning hair, undecipherable
to even the smoothest lips. They got smaller as I
got older, but a man I love tells me they’re pretty.
They fed my son those glorious first 18 months,
and when the milk was gone, their new life began.
They had no friends, no other breasts to talk to,
but they always had me, still do, and right now
we’re going to take a walk in the park.
Last updated August 16, 2022