If I were French, I'd write
about, breasts, structuralist treatments
of breasts, destructionalist breasts
A friend remembers nursing,
his twin in a menacing blur. But wait,
we're in America, where breasts
were pointy until 1968.
Beckett calls them dugs, which makes me think
of potatoes, but who calls breasts potatoes?
I blame the summer when flowers overcome gardens
and breasts point at the stars. Cats
have eight of them, and Colette tells
of a cat nursing its young while
being nursed by its mother. Imagine the scene
rendered. And then there's the Russian
story about the women . . . but wait,
they've turned the lights down, and Humphrey
Bogart is staring at Lauren Bacall's breasts
as if they might start speaking.

Maxine Chernoff

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