breasts
Scarred beneath their bags
Of heavy silicone,
They were mountains,
Shored up and sharpened,
A handful of the mind’s mud
At a time. Those breasts
Weren’t for a limp sweater,
Or a bra size more than
Two saucers. Those breasts
Had purpose. Men’s eyes
Would unpage magazines
For a sight of them.
Melissa was no longer
Required to speak.
Her breasts could talk.
They had a language
And everyone
Understood.
When at last she made the photo shoot,
She gently placed her breasts
Of shiny plastic flesh
Upon the table for
The cameraman,
And left.
