There is a fascination
the human race has
with breasts. I
have breasts. Nothing special
about them, really, in fact,
they can be cumbersome,
at times, in body and mind.

Time compresses mind,
mind divines time,
and aches to its rhyme.

Breasts. They are functional,
they procreate humanity,
in their forms, and
so much more…

Zygotes. Dividing essences
into sexes. Doesn’t that seem
strange? Is it a purely physical
thing? Divisions?

Because, there is not such
otherwhere, in Beyond.

Life suckles breasts. Who can
decry that fact? Anyone?
To my shame, I did not
suckle my children, my girls.
Why? For just that fact.

Beyond was more important…

You gasp. I flagellate myself
every day, for that,
and other things. Abuses
of self satisfaction, of losing
my dreams young, of killing myself,
on September 11, 2001. Murder
of one pales besides murder
of a world. Yet, there are
breasts involved in the speciousness
of all deaths…

And, now, rebirth.
Birth. Blood. Birth.

The weight of breasts
brings weight of guilt.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 8/28/04