Breasts

There's me, and there's this other me
Who likes to think she's me, but
Isn't.

She sifts through drawers looking for a
Workout bra, but
Finds a corset instead.

A glitter blue and
Black leather thing she bought when she was thin.
It no longer fits.
The sports bra does, but
She can't find it.

She moves on to another drawer where
Lingerie lies side by side with
Nipple guards and nursing bras.

What folly.
A waste of time.
She looks for what she cannot find.
Her life.
Herself.
She is not me, but am I?

Who I think I am, that is?

As a babe, my daughter was not me, but
As she grows, she becomes
An approximation.

She bites her nails and touches her...
Well, you understand.


Does that make her me?
She's more like me or the

Person I wish to be.
Potentially.


She's heaven.
A heavenly body.
Innocent. Untouched. Tender.
Where I am tame.
Tamed by time and tragedy -
Or at least an approximation of it.

From freedom to girdles to garments

To bindings
To bending
To supplication
At the foot of Life's great door.
My cleaving
An opening to The world.

And what am I to do with her?
With myself?
Am I to be held responsible for
What I did not expect
But brought forth anyway?

My open drawer of folly.
Do I open it and keep looking?
Looking for what I cannot find?
Or, do I give up and move on?
Sift through bygone days of twenty-something stupidity?
Attempt to clothe myself in the bridal garb betrothed to me
Before I was gelded,
Slammed shut,
Sorted like
So many sets of white underpants?

I forgo the seeking -
Contain myself;
Restrain my breasts and breath.
Conserve my strength for
The next time I might use it;
Use THEM?

Why not wear
All of the above
At once?

Bind me up,
Consume, or
Set me free.

It makes little
Difference.