breast mutiny
They chatter like two teenagers
popping their displeasure.
It’s too cold.
Clothing is too
tight,
too loose.
This is so boring.
They look up at me occasionally.
You’re holding us back, you know?
Your sad attempts at support.
Protest is pointless.
I’m just a nuisance really.
Never mind how I’ve nurtured.
Protected and coddled.
Not once supposed their shape
predictive of their potential,
Even encouraged that stretch toward
adventure
since the day they were blossomed
instantly to full bloom.
We are bigger than this fabric
casket.
You with your square, microscopic
ideas
blasphemous to the possibilities of
life.
Sometimes their protests come close
to frenzied.
The chatter becomes more squawk than
moan.
And just as I think they might
take this moment to bolt,
bear themselves to the
world,
they
subdue, soften
as if they might sleep.
Perhaps the protests are merely
a
restoration of purpose.
We will have our freedom
With or
without you
