BREAST, REALLY?

A poem by Elizabeth Gregory

I’ve always found it remarkable how tangible femininity is:

it almost assumes its own soul, captures the movement of light.

Succulent femininity, how it oozes out of pores,

glimmers in the white of the eye, dew on the top of the lip.

The softness of a laugh, the romance of space,

vast space, fields and trees and earth;

and then sex and heat and that building opulent femininity:

how is it so opulent, so wildly luxurious?

Femininity and flesh and heat and there it is:

not just female, but animate, and with equal depth as the spirit it caresses.

 

Oh! the femininity of the breast they say,

these soft twins, these great mounds, so luscious, covetable, sexual, and yet: the mother.

How femininity oozes between her and her child,

white from him to her, then from her to it.

Baby, baby, that’s right,

give me more white!

Oh the bastards! they say, they have sexualised the breasts,

but wrongly?

Is it wrong to desire? To fantasise?

Do we really lose the mother? And why? And yet,

 

in truth the real beauty of femininity is its masculinity;

yin and yang, they are incomplete without each other,

they are conceived inside each other,

and as every masculine creature radiates lust and strength and heat,

so does every feminine creature.

Like eyelashes fluttering together, exuding sensitivity,

flashing widely open and banging shut with pain and excitement,

smacking down, sometimes bound by wet, hot wet, furious emotion;

these gatekeepers as we close our eyes to dream and cry and kiss and pray:

delicate lashes of femininity and masculinity encircle vast windows and stupendous morality.

 

Artwork © JACKIE HUDSON LALOR

Emma SapersteinComment