I read a poem about Breasts

by Praneta Jha

llustration: Edward Hopper’s A Woman In The Sun

What are these breasts
– that you were taught
to lust after
and I was taught
to treasure –
but mounds of flesh?

Yes, they serve a purpose
like all of my body.
They give milk to nourish
you and me alike, though
I can choose otherwise.

But why must they hide
while you fetishize?

What is measured
by their sag or size?

Once as a little girl, I
saw flesh decayed on my
aunt’s cancer-ridden chest.

I saw her wear sarees
though her blouse wouldn’t fill.

Later, there were nights
I begged for your teeth
around my nipples — these
dark round unseeing eyes.

Hold them in your hands and
squeeze them tight
– I like being vandalized.

I also read a poem
called “Song the Breasts Sing to
the Late-in-Life Boyfriend”.

Yes, I get lonely sometimes,
when they’ve not been touched

– knowing all the while
their home lies in dust.

Praneta Jha loves words. After a stint in journalism, she is pursuing a master’s degree in women’s studies. Her writing has been published in Hindustan Times and Kafila while her poetry has appeared in The Boston Coffee House magazine. She currently lives in Mumbai. Oh, and she identifies as a feminist.