Never before, have you noticed this carefully
the breasts—the round melons on the girl
in admitting, the plump balloons
on the receptionist of radiology.
Those of the white-haired woman
in the waiting room, who is perusing topographic
hiking maps—the tanned legs could belong
to a 30-year old, but the breasts—smallish
triangles, crepe-like folds under the t-shirt.
The man across who is reading National
Geographic—his are squarish man boobs,
and I wonder if he is having them
squished between the glass plates, too.
Try to imagine them all without— you can’t.
Then, imagine your own chest, a clean slate,
the canvas stretched tight across the chest,
the skeleton visible through the half-moon scars—
You tell yourself, you’ll still be able to ski, rock climb,
bike, write, and swim. Make love. In the dark.
A desert with no sandy hummocks, no rise
and fall, cradling shadow. Instead, imagine a meadow,
or a lake at dawn, reflecting the star-sequined sky.