The West Review
  • Home
  • About
    • About
    • Submission Guidelines
    • Contact
    • Masthead
  • Current Issue
  • Shop
    • Bookstore
    • Subscriptions
  • Archives
  • Blog

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.



NEXT
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
  • Home
  • About
    • About
    • Submission Guidelines
    • Contact
    • Masthead
  • Current Issue
  • Shop
    • Bookstore
    • Subscriptions
  • Archives
  • Blog