Because I have worn a strapless underwire all 90 degree day long

Not about travel, I know. Anyone have any other thoughts on bras? Underwear in general? Yikes. That could be a scary inquiry to toss out into unchartered cyberspace! Anyway...for your consideration, enjoyment, amusement, comment, etc...


All I Want is a Beautiful Memory

I want to remember my first bra
my first breast sighting,
little mound protruding,
shirt not flat against my boy chest anymore.

But I don’t remember when
or where or how or even who.
Who was the girl that grew those breasts.
Who was the woman who bought the bra?
Was it training or full-size,
A, B, C, or D?

Did the tiny pods burst forth
fully bloomed like twin carnations,
or were they slower to form,
like two clay pots of wildflowers
grown from seed?

Was my first bra white or pink,
tan or beige?
Were there ruffles,
sequins,
beads,
ribbon?
Snaps,
straps,
padded cones?

Did I start my life as a woman
swaddled in cotton, plain-Jane pure as flannel,
or did I come of age crossing my heart,
Jane Mansfield 24-hour style?

I would like to know
did my picture hang on the wall
in a curtained dressing room
among photos of other pure, unblemished
girls from town.
Did we each have a caption?
Jill’s first bra.
Marcia’s 36B.

Was I proud, or did I live in fear
of the three-sided shadow under my shirt?

In an uncertain world, this much I know,
as soon as they arrived,
someone, somewhere covered my breasts.