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 Listener, 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 rehearse rapture. Because pity is ridiculous. Because healing is ridiculous. Because if I would love— I must love— Because touch is a practice. Like sweeping. Like mercy. |
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