Every woman has them, touches them, hides them, shows them off or ignores them.
We have a fixation with breasts regardless of our sexual orientation.
Show a little nipple while singing the national anthem on TV and the world stops to ponder. Somehow, collectively, we agree to give that which we hide tremendous power. Imagine a world where breasts are free to be!
Micro swirls of tinted flesh
Brushed upon an infant’s chest.
Two tiny promises of dimpled pleasure
Laying dormant on sun kissed canvas.
Childhood’s nipples are shy.
They shed no light
On the battle of the sexes
Boy . . . Girl, Girl . . . Boy,
We’re all the same,
These almost invisible coins
Of small change proclaim.
Until a pressure . . .
And nipples become the mastheads
Of bold sailing ships,
Capable of kidnapping the stares
Of grown men,
While splashing blush stain
On the newly stubbled cheeks
Of young boys,
And tightening the frown lines
Of older, drier women.
Pretty bobbing apples
Of both question and desire,
Filling the triangles of bikinis
And the lace edged cups of bras
With aggressive hope.
Alone at night we curiously fingered
These charms to a thrusting burst of joy.
Van Gogh’s Sunflowers splashed
On the teen fevered canvas of our flesh.
A lover strokes
A lightening bolt ripple
Across our skin,
Flaming a spiraling path
From tugged upon nipples
To our inner core…
Landing within the pulsing wet swell
Of our hidden third nipple,
Entwined in hair feathered folds.
These three lost goddess’s
Of fleshly pleasures
Reunite in the velvet void,
Hold hands and dance
Under a Goddess Moon,
To the silent roar of orgasmic music…
Pulling so hard, we feel our soul
Leaking into their waiting, hungry mouths.
And thus are we forever tethered
Within the hearts of our children,
For they have swallowed microchips
Of our soul food,
And we will find them again and again.
Mother radar that tracks
Through all the mists and confusions
That time, circumstance, and separation
Will pour as an ocean
Between mother and child.
The pull is downwards, ever downwards,
Earth bound and underbelly heavy,
Panty elastic and political promises
And pretty breasts,
All too soon lose their elastic rebound
And melt into softer shapes.
Oh, sister mine.
Something has been hunting
Along the cellular corridors
Of your form and function.
It stalks your essence
With hungry intent.
The mind fractures into shards
Of chaotic flurry.
A hard lump of . . .
. . . . . . what? . . .
. . . .
. . . please
Shoo fly, don’t bother me.
Shoo . . . . shoo . . .
. . . lady bug, lady bug,
Fly away home.
Your house is on fire
And your children will roam.
A stranger’s hand palpates,
A knife cuts,
In fear painted limbo.
Leaving behind a curved seam
That decorates yet another door to your heart.
Your hand presses emptiness
Where once you cradled teddy bears,
And your lover tattoos
Passion bites and kisses
Along the wildflower roadmap
That’s stitched across your chest,
Learning new ways to old stories.
So sing a siren song of laughter,
Dancing in the rain.
You now have both woman’s pulsing breast,
And her battle scarred warrior’s chest.
Sentinels to the heart and soul of you,
Barbara Anne Maloney is always ready to reinvent herself. She met her husband 39 years ago while hitchhiking down from Alaska. She raised and home schooled their children on a fish boat. She’s a natural caretaker and an empath who has done psychic readings, energy mapping, astrology columns and sold fries on Vancouver’s nude Wreck Beach. Now, in her 60’s, and living in Vancouver, British Columbia, Barbara is turning to writing for the sweet pleasure of storytelling. You can read more of her work on her website. Barbara is an organic vegetarian who hates to house clean. Books win over dishes in most arm wrestling events. Her spiritual path is one of inner exploration and outer appreciation.
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- Assistant Ed: Ben Neal
- Ed: B. Bemel