political cartoon

When seen in isolation
my breasts are a cartoon
of themselves.
Removed from the hulking bulk of flesh
that is my body
there is a cartoonesque swell
like someone's drawing
of fake tits
held aloft
in my balconette
or push-up
they are an exaggeration
on a theme

but in context
eased back onto my torso
they are just
the breasts of a fat girl
better not heard or seen

slippage

A slippage
a fading of the darker shade
like a balloon
pressed and overstretched
just here below the nipple.
I am fading out.
This is what becomes of flesh
blown out by age
a weighty stretching of the colour
pulled too thin by the sag of time.
I think of glass blown
yet my breast is made of sturdier stuff

Cut

I look in the mirror for the cut
that is not mine
but hers.
It should be mine, what,
with my desire for self flagellation.
My breast in reflection is full
and slightly sagging.
I would take the cut. I would cherish the scar
I would press myself against the radiation
taking it from her into my own body
somehow cutting
in the process the bitter core of my being
the pride I take in nothing but my breasts
because all else is abhorrent.
We do not chose
but if we could I would choose her errant cells
her scar, her worry
to take my mind off the pain of being whole
her breast for mine.
I cup the rude swell of flesh
incapable of changing anything
the pure are punished
the punishable left untouched

cat

The cat does this thing with his feet
where he presses them one at a time against my flesh
biting down on the rug
which just happens to be across my chest
It is a gesture to conjure milk
from a mother
a sucking and a pawing
which he does indiscriminately
against my knee
or my stomach
but in this case my breast

I am reminded of children I have never lifted
to suck
I am unmoved
I have no desire to mother him
this cat
or any human child
but it is there between us
this pawing, this biting down
and I rest my hand on his head gently
and let him paw me
till he is done.

13th May 2014

Impossible to separate
This swell of flesh
from the way it has been held
caressed
raised high and loud and proud
in my plunging dress.
But, blinking
through a plethora of mouths and fingerprints
we see
the rude protrusion of the thing
a soft announcement of flesh
a kiss of darker skin
already puckering
a single hair, curled

no, but as the nipple hears its name
and reaches for the pleasure that attention promises
a second hair or one hair split
forked tongue from the same fine pore
curl out toward the sentry of my frame of vision.
This then
today
tomorrow I may pluck this slight distraction away.

Monday 12th May

Anne Carson watches her branch, or she doesn't.
I have my breast.
lounging now, a sideways slide
soft and braless under cotton. At rest.
And last night the nipple grazed the porcelain bowl,
thrown forward, rocked back by the seasick lurch of my body
wracked and shivering.
It is a different beast
breast
beast
today
on this flaccid day of rest.