Elegy to My Mother's Breasts
by Meg McManama
My mama’s breasts betrayed her flesh, and now she’s lost
them both. The way cancer flourished: ductal, lobular, lymphatic.
For you and for your abolition, we are grateful.
...
I have traced your meaning in Old English to brest: the heart
of emotion. In Old Saxon: brustian: to bud. In Latin: mamma.
The geneticists have traced your reason for betrayal: BRACA, BARD,
which, like morning glory, coils the branches of her DNA,
my aunts, my cousins, my sisters, my DNA all holy
and booby-trapped (forgive me)–this maternal tree.
...
Oh, you twin figs, with your lobes and pockets
full of secrets. You pendulum orbs, plush pomegranate,
bang bang, we write you here. Our first drink
and comfort, for what do you suspend?
To make milk, to make fire?
...
Dear breasts, the last time I mourned you, I was hiding
from the family party, on a rocking chair, in a dark room
nursing my girl child. She was droopy-eyed and pure bliss;
my busy bones were begging and beginning to rest–my mother opened
the door and stepped in. Her quiet silhouette said, It is like
I am watching me feed you. And we stayed that way
as long as we could.