MY BREASTS, BY JEREMY RADIN
In the case of un hombre con pechos—figuratively, a man with breasts—you might think, “Oh grandfather” or “Oh my brother, my friend.”
You just know that this man is nurturing.
—Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves
I am standing in the shower
holding my breasts in my hands.
My big, huge, & hirsute breasts, like a grandma yeti’s
breasts. I am cupping them—
no, fondling— no, caressing—
I am sloshing the water over & between them
making them slick & shiny with soapy water,
my breasts that would offer good milk if they could
to the endless many milk-needers of the world.
Tender jiggling templemounds.
Dreams of puffy buffalo
galumphing in the grass.
How could I have hated such a bulbous bliss?
How could I have made a foe of buoyancy?
I stand in the unraveling & hold
my breasts until I mean it. I hold my breasts as I am held
by the time between
what holds me. I hold
my breasts because
I was told I must
Because pity is ridiculous.
Because healing is ridiculous.
Because if I would love—
I must love—
is a practice. Like sweeping.
Jeremy Radin is a poet, actor, playwright, teacher, and extremely amateur gardener. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, The Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, Gulf Coast, The Journal, and elsewhere. He is the author of two collections of poetry: Slow Dance with Sasquatch (Write Bloody Publishing, 2012) and Dear Sal (not a cult press, 2017). He was born and lives in Los Angeles where he earned his MFA in Eating Large Sandwiches at Brent’s Delicatessen. Follow him @germyradin