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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