Published by Sledgehammer Lit

He said he fell in love with her
breasts, in high school,
that every boy in his class
sought her/them, the first to
ripen, and he had won the prize,
like a goldfish at the carnival.

He told us this in the boardroom
between agenda items, as casual as
the update on the increased price of
paper, the same objects he had lugged
in that teenage backpack as he chased
her around the halls.

It was my first day as the only
woman in this room of men;
I had promised my boss I could handle
whatever banter they hurled my way:
be it distrust, or crudity, or
misogyny.

But now, he said, to chuckles and smirks,
she’s breastfed those kids,
nameless, as if he had not fathered them;
they’re not what they used to be
(the breasts, not the kids),
sagging, droopy, sad.

No one told him that the
breasts are meant for feeding
mouths of babes,
that the milk was not meant
for him or this
boardroom.