Temporary
Breasts
Elise
M. McClellan
When
I was young breasts were
admirable like my Aunt.
She
called them "Bosoms."
From
the pool she took me to pee,
the bathroom full of wet people.
In
the same stall, desuited, nude
she laughed as I covered my lack.
Her
breasts big as my head
attractive, asbestos white
as she put sunscreen on my freckled shoulders.
Her
breasts are gone now.
They look like smooth bowls
full with fat from her stomach.
She
shows us, Mom and I,
in the Hospital.
Breasts
absent of nodes, nipples
she insist her husband won't miss.
Holding them she praises Modern
Technology for cheating the same death
as her mother,my Grandmother,
who did
not have these options.
It's
not that I hate having them,
breasts,
their intimate space craving infinity.
I
carry them in bras
I carry them for the mouths
of my children I carry them
fearing lumps hard with
the passion of death,
other
lumps,
that are not nipples.
I
carry them invisible.
I
anticipate their absence.
I
carry them greedily,
jealously, temporarily
because every woman in my family
has lived
to die
without them.
The
2River View, 1_2 (Winter 1997)
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