Here, 2019: Wingspan, Cup
In the bathtub, legs too long and thin as a model’s,
bending however they have to fit, you don’t know
that I can see you, that I watch. That when you lower
your head beneath the butter-lit surface, your breasts
sometimes rise above the waterline. If you saw me
watching, I would never get to see them again.
I used to watch movies and wonder whether I wanted
the lead or wanted to be her. The answer is always be.
You are similarly confused, imagining I want my own
reflection, but in the bedroom, I, too, look up.
You used to own several bras with cups, slightly
padded, an attempt to be a certain kind of woman,
considering your kind not good enough because not just
everyone can see your kind at all. I used to fold them
into your drawers, cup into cup to keep their shape, straps
tucked in like a tight hug. I never saw you wear one.
They were on reserve, a just-in-case, an if-it-comes-to-this.
I don’t know when those went the way of the dead.
I dreamt you worked so hard you muscled them into
pectorals, went perennially shirtless as men do
while mowing lawns, on mid-day runs, even answering
the door to canvassers. It made you lustful for attention,
and for other women. I killed the one I caught you with
by bashing her head against the wall until no one
was home. Where there is subtraction, there’ll be
subtraction. Go flat as a pie tin. Make it irrevocable.
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