Her ******* grow and shrink,
rise and fall like lava-spewing volcanoes,
Balloon out and shrivel in
depending on her mood, the time of day,
her appetite, the month of the year.

Sometimes, she’d like them big,
so she could squish them together,
squeeze them like giant tomatoes.
Other times, she’d want them small,
tiny, like snow-colored clementines
jutting out just so from the ***** of her chest.

She had a range of bras to go with every
mood of her *******—
Pale and padded lightly, for everyday life,
soft and sheer, when she was asleep,
Huge and fire-red, when fiery passion struck deep,
***** and black, only for lovers’ eyes.

She loved her *******,
loved them like a father loves his dogs,
Took them whether they were fat or skinny,
little or big,
bare or plunging or pushed out like
neon street cones.

Sometimes her ******* got her into trouble,
but more often than not they saved her life.
She would not trade them in for a million rubies,
not for seven extra lives
or a winning lottery ticket.

Bad news came one day.
She cried and she cried until her insides were hollow.
As the surgeon sliced into her chest,
she could only mumble ‘sorry’
over and over
to her poor *******,
the loves of her life,
the apples of her eye.
She could not believe she had to say good-bye.