Was hard to witness
Mommy’s day to day
underwire ritual.
That center gore never quite sat right.
She closed her bra
on the tightest setting to raise the cups.
Straps planted riverbed grooves into
the girdle of my mother’s shoulders.
I watched her on her wash days
bend over the tub on her knees.
Streams of black swirl
rushed towards the drain
as she beat back the encroach of silver
with black dye.
Housed her hips inside creased slacks.
Shrouded pretty legs
within knee-length skirts.
Stuffed her wide feet
into narrow high heels.
They squeezed her baby toes.
After 22 years of retirement
the natural color of her nails
hasn’t returned.
She swayed to and from
her desk,
bosses’ offices,
and the coffee machine.
Took dictation in shorthand.
Read first drafts of their handwritten letters.
Corrected poor spelling and grammar.
Produced correspondence at 150 words per minute.
When I visited her at work
my neck burned hell-hot
when those Misters called
by her first name.
She’s a married woman,
I thought.
I smiled politely through the introductions
Because I knew how
our household needed her income too.
When I read that bras
constrict lymphatic flow,
I undid the hook and eye.
Lettum fly outta the frame of those cups.
Land like a needle on vinyl
when a DJ drops a beat.
I know it ain’t supposed to be
the kinda thang to
broadcast to mixed company,
but in my boyfriend’s palm,
his generous lips
nudging netherly tickle,
they’re firmer than ever.
Now that my breasts
have been riding
pandemic pretty
I will hate having to
tuck them back into that apex--
but I can’t have the outline of my nipples
visible against silk or cashmere.
If I had canvas
and talent,
I’d paint
Mommy and me,
twirling bands of our bras with our hands
skipping towards the horizon
our bosoms in holy dance.
Carla M. Cherry (she/her) is a veteran English teacher who is studying for her M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the City College of New York. She has written five books of poetry; her latest is Stardust and Skin (iiPublishing 2020). Twitter: @carla_bronxpoet