Breasts

My memory of breasts is not
all gentle, not always milky—
Long before the daughters came,
and their trusting, hungry mouths
closed around aereolas grown turgid
with food, there was a matinee show
at a theatre, standing room only;
and I, the only pre-teen (but tall
for my age) in a group of older
cousins. It was a comedy, slapstick,
and bodies pressed on all sides
against each other— then a hand
came through the darkness to fumble
at the snaps on my blouse. I clawed
and batted at this unseen intruder
which snaked in and out as if
disembodied. Everyone laughed,
oblivious, preoccupied by the antics
onscreen. Stricken mute, I could
not utter a sound. When we came out,
it was late afternoon. The sun made
the hills look sinuous, but I
saw them lit as if on fire.

 

In response to small stone (164).

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