My Blog

Ruth L. Schwartz

It is the breast I remember seeing,
the nipple pink and round, the lustrous flesh,
before I saw the woman had no arms
in the locker room. Her teeth were excellent,
tugging her blouse on,

but it is her breast I remember
when I see again how what is perfect
lives beside what is tragic and damaged,
how silence arcs between these two,
each making the other possible.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 13th, 2007 at 10:46 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.