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[This poem was a semifinalist for the 1997 Emily Dickinson Award.]
Bra
What a good fit! But the label says Honduras: Alas, I am Union forever, yes, both breasts and the heart between them committed to U.S. labor.
But such a splendid fit! And the label tells me the woman who made it, bronze as the breasts now in it, speaks the language I dream in; I count in Spanish
the pesos she made stitching this breast-divider: will they go for her son's tuition, her daughter's wedding? The thought is a lovely fit, but oh, the label!
And oh, those pesos that may be pennies, and hard-earned. Was it son or daughter who made this, unschooled, unwedded? How old? Fourteen? Ten? That fear is a tight fit.
If only the heart could be worn like the breast, divided, nosing in two directions for news of the wide world, sniffing here and there for justice, for mercy.
How burdened every choice is with politics, guilt, expensive with duty, heavy as breasts in need of this perfect fit whose label says Honduras.
Rhina P. Espaillat
From Where Horizons Go, ©
1998, New Odyssey Press; first |
