Braless
Papa pours himself
black tea from the
old iron kettle,
probably
thinking about
stacking hay.
He says
I was bottle-fed
cow’s milk. He’d empty
Bell’s udders before dawn
and boil me a cup
over the gas-lit burner.
Mama’s good breast
didn’t leak much and
she’d be damned
if her baby girl drank
factory formula.
Now when I hit the divots
on my bike to school
I notice the bounce
of my budding chest,
braless,
like my Mama.