by John Hildebidle
Breasts. There. Iíve said it.
Not that I obsess, mind you.
But this is a city and season
of cleavage, of nipples proudly
announcing through thin summer fabric,
of muscle tone and variety:
surreptitious Asian breasts,
quizzical French breasts,
The breasts of mothers, unapologetic
about years of nursing.
The new, still-hesitant breasts
of school-girls. Iím told some
belong to intermediate genders,
concoctions of surgery and hormone shots.
That willowy blond sounds like a natural baritone.
What of it? Itís aesthetics, not sex.
So much to see, even in cathedrals,
where halter-tops reign.
Is that a tattoo or (God forbid)
a napping spider?
In the museum, Gothic Madonnas
join in, suckling the Christ-child.
Copyright © 2003 by John Hildebidle.