Brassiere

Author: Stephen W. Cote

Brassiere:

A simple word confounds my world

with a Golberg clasp, and eighty-four steps,

to unsnap the strap. Terribly ravenous, my need,

addictive opiate mammary; my eyes never leave

the orbicular prize lurking just inside.

Spilling over demi-pedestals, the silky honeycomb

devolves my mind to barbaric baby cries

that sigh "nurture me, something supple and silky, please."

Alas the clasp escapes my neanderthal grasp,

and I, near collapse, for want of a silky sweet,

burrow into the loving embrace that

a push-up creates; to console myself

with barely a suckle of bliss, obscured sculptures to kiss,

because brassieres perplex me so.