I tripped over my breasts today.
If not literally,
Then in some ripped out slip of a dream
Caught between the coffee and the windshield wipers.
And, I think that stumble was a question:
“How did I end up here?”
Here – in this neutered, prescribed world that binds the breasts
Like the minds of children.
See, in my last life
I was a Mayan ritual dancer.
Or maybe it was further back,
In Lemuria, say.
Yeah, that other crusty ancient place
That sacrificed big breasted women
With an irresistible smash of art and sex and war.
I danced bare-breasted
I swung free, eclipsing my own shadow
And the sun bore down
Until the sweat ran
In a salt-slick river through the canyon between,
And I screamed as I was taken down –
Thank God I never had to wonder why –
And I died, sated
As all big breasted women did back then.
This poem originally appeared in Volume 4 of The Ampersand Review.
Felicia A Rivers rolls around the Greene Townes west of Philadelphia, chasing a BA in English at Villanova, performing odd (yet respectable) jobs for a financial firm, and wondering if we have all lost our ever-lovin’ minds. Then she writes about it.