Double-Breasted Poem

I thought this was
very clever.

I.

A woman I don't know will have her breasts
removed this summer (insert ironic nod to swimsuit
season here). Surprisingly, the feeling of my choked-back
tears is not unlike the mystery of milk, the let-down reflex
that is at once a gentle thing, and fierce.
Remembering back 30 years ago, or close to that,
the baby's sucking reflex will seduce out little spurts
of liquid heaven from the nerve-rich nipple for a meal,
but milk lets down regardless, with a will that is its own.
Same uncontrolled sensation now, but tears that swell
inside my throat, not milk inside my breasts and if I knew her,
the intimate connection of experiences, conversations shared,
is all that it would take for tears to flow more freely,
staining the front of my dress the way milk used to do.

II.

They make us feel that we are women and then -- gone. To
save a life, of course there's that, but still.
Though some complain about their breasts -- too small,
too big, or linked to fearsome episodes from childhood
that have left a scar -- mine have always seemed to be a pair
of loyal friends. The thrill of that first stealthy touch
in the front seat of his father's car. The heat and pressure
as the milk let down and I, amazed, fed babies with my
very self, warm nectar free of additives and brimming
with the fat of love and magic vitamins. Check-ups,
counting on their health when others get bad news.
And even now -- screw "even;" I am not that old -- they fill
my clothes and rise up proudly into cleavage that reveals
a hint (or sometimes more) of possibility. I'd miss them,
if they had to go beneath a surgeon's knife to give me
added years on earth, assuming I'd be brave enough
to say good-bye.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014