My Bra

Patrick Demarchelier
Pic source: http://kritinaknief.com/blog/patrick-demarchelier/

 

My Bra
Is branded
Onto my very Soul-
Even after
I reach home
And unhook it
And fling it
Far, far away,
It continues
To choke me.

 

It’s not there
Yet
I can feel
Its ghastly presence-
In the painful
Red welts
Circumventing
My torso.

 

My lungs
Are habituated
To take in
Small gulps of air-
Constrained always
By
A Regulating Presence:
Being a woman
Even Oxygen
Is rationed
For me.

 

When
My breasts-
Emancipated, free
Jiggle
As I move,
I am conscious
Of something
Odd-
As if
It’s the jiggling
That’s unnatural,
Instead of my Bra.

 

It’s almost
As if
Breasts
Were made
To always move
Together
With military precision-
Lest patriarchy
Gets cross-eyed
Staring
At them.

 

When
Despite it all,
I venture out
Bold sans bra,
Horny Eyes
Poke
My cold, puckered
Nipples
And I forget
That I am clothed-
I forget my tee
I forget my stole
I forget everything
But the absence
Of a presence
Which wasn’t needed
From the very beginning.

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