Breasts - A Poem

 

How can the objects of such desire, worship and admiration

be mere means of sustenance and nourishment?

Big or small, they are forever in our faces.

We build them up with pockets of fluid.

Or reduce them with knives and needles.

They perk and bounce.

They droop and sway.

We celebrate them and parade them with pride when we’re young.

Then curse them for their lack of youthfulness when we’re old.

We truss them up like turkeys to contain and restrain them.

And add bulky padding to deceive the eyes of strangers.

If we’re fortunate and attentive they remain healthy.

But sometimes they fall sick and need healing.

And, sadly, we sometimes lose them.

Then we march with our sisters in their memory.

How men salivate at the mere site of these lovely mounds of flesh!

Perhaps because they miss their mothers,

or have oral fixations needing to be soothed and pacified.

Pacifiers indeed! They do placate both young and old into silence.

Spread out for all to see at the center of magazines which are then

spread out in the laps of young boys who desire release.

Plastered in all their glory on internet pages.

Did God know what he was creating when he designed these vessels of food?

Not necessary for procreation, but serve as such in a roundabout way all the same.

Because I AM a woman I HAVE breasts, but I AM NOT my breasts. I am more.

How important we are as women to have the ability

to feed the eyes and mouths of the world.

 

 

© Susan Barton 2013