At twelve, you're handed torpedoes. The boys see you, try to push under your shirt. Obsequious
little troops under the underwire, elbows digging in.
A good, clean fight: it's you v. the nuzzlers.
They come at you all day long, especially in the summers when
the weather requires you to wear less.
Walking through Times Square one day, you learn the Spanish word tetas. O, tetas!
Boobs has long been in the lexicon. The wide vowels gone gooey in the mouth.
Tits. The sound of a fingernail tapping a tabletop.
Breasts: polite. A word for poetry. (See Making Love)
Zabas. Bazoombas. Funbags! Knockers. Zank you, Doctor.
Hooters, where The Girls are.
On the sidewalk, heads spring from their shoulders,
googly eyes bobbing loose from their necks, grinning mouths, tongues a-loll.
Mornings, you weeble wobble to the sound of Reveille, wrassle them into Aunt Helen bras, over the
shoulder boulder holders, feats of architecture:
wire and polyester to resist gravity, to stabilize the economy,
to raise high the roof beams, to save yourself from evolution,
from making and remaking those little suckers.
This you must remember, my child: women carried these things
from the Motherland straight to your door.
KC Trommer's poems have appeared in AGNI, The Antioch Review, Coconut, MARGIE, Octopus, The Sycamore Review and other journals. A graduate of the MFA program at University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, KC has been the recipient of an Academy of American Poets prize, as well as fellowships from the Maine Summer Arts Program, the Haystack Mountain School of Crafts, the Vermont Studio Center, and the Prague Summer Program. She lives in Queens with her husband, the writer Justin Courter.