You might think
this is too much sharing,
and my wife, who for this poem
I’ll call Irene (which,
coincidentally,
is her real name),
will probably agree.
She opens a magical
drawer, takes out a bra,
and rather than pulling it
around herself the way someone
puts on armor, bends forward,
her back curved like a swan’s neck.
She lets her breasts
drop into it. I imagine
waterfalls, tympani.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 2.
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