My boobs arrived

while I was standing in the middle of route 305.

The boy said as a matter of fact

“you have big boobs.”


Like Zora Neale Hurston

who didn’t realize she was black

until she saw her face

next to all the white kids in the photo.


Damn, where did those come from? (Blam!)


Tucked into place

so I could slide into second base

I hadn’t considered them separately;

my body’s sole purpose was to move grandly through space.


In German, boobs are “balconies”

among other things

standing out to be judged

now standing in . . . for me.


In Cougar-ville

breasts are like missiles

encased in leopard print

purchased at the going rate.


I know a woman

who aims hers at me

a little like Cuba gunning for Miami.

When did we become enemies?


I hate this shit; where can I opt out?


Men judge them, name them, cop a feel.

Women lift them, upgrade them, buy them for their daughters.

Certainly femininity is not confined to

tits, melons, knockers, milk cans, Tetons, tatas, blinkers, and umlauts.


It might be your goal in life

to straddle a Harley, bikini-clad.

(I once got asked–I laughed, poor man.)

Do it. You have the right


to tuck and lift and augment,

but don’t point those damn things at me.

And don’t commit synecdoche.

Because I own these.


Is it really any surprise

that in a dorm after route 305

I had to push that boy right off of me?

It took him a year to apologize.



1 Comment

  1. philopsycho says:

    Yours is perfect example of why the Vagina Monologues could stand to incorporate the breasted experience. Women are so much more than bearers of vaginas, though that is certainly part of it for most of us. I think that is important, particularly for recognizing the experiences and voices of trans women, who often add breasts (whether through plastic surgery or by wearing special bras) to perform as women.

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