BREASTS

A nun first explained breasts
to me.  The boys off at gym,
Sister Roseen waltzed between desks --
singing how wonderful, how beautiful,
hair, blood, hormones, changes.
I didn’t really believe her.  All that blood
every month.  I mean, was she joking?
She talked about her own
body -- to my surprise.
It had never occurred to me that
she had a woman’s body.
Can you imagine, she asked,
feeding an infant from your own
self?  Beneath black Franciscan cloth, her breasts
swelled above a waist tied
with white rope and clicking beads.
After that I saw breasts
everywhere:  my teachers,
my busdriver, even my mother --
had this curving mystery
tucked inside their shirts.
Breasts lurking beneath cotton,
hidden apples, cloaked and waiting.
Even in the mirror, they began to appear,
tender at first, and I wondered
that I had never noticed it before --
how all these women
managed to keep such a secret.

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Published in  Connecticut River Review