Tits

This poem doesn’t go where you think it’s going. Delightful images.

TITS                                                                                                   Carol Gordon

 

After a run or ballgame,

the last whistle, scores

boxed in columns,

the women enter the locker room

At the Y. Unzip, unhook.

The lines on their skin

relate imprinted stories.

A British square of buckle, button regiment,

recurve of wire.

After a shower the women

circle the hot tub

like a sanctuary after a dry trek.

Sister, memory, forgive

the giraffe her superior view,

the lioness’ ferocious kindness,

the elephant,

her perfect hips.

Every thigh, each argument

of elbow eased with water,

the women step from the pool

setting free the soft birds

of their breasts.

Plump gulls, sparrow,

owls of a wise eye.

Puffins, auklets, pipers, dippers,

robins, turnstones, tits.

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