Some Mornings

I lie in bed gently stroking my breasts,
rounded as cellos. I can play them
hard like timpani, or shake them,
breath through a harmonica.
That's when they play the blues.

They satisfy me like abacus beads,
the rightness of math I can see.
Some mornings they are basil,
fresh and strong. Some mornings
stained glass at Chartres.

Some morning, I will have to
place them precisely
under the red laser line. I will withstand
photons and electrons to save them.

Deborah Bacharach

Drash 2009