Thirteen Ways of Wearing a Bra
The straps itch, cups tug, every strip
of lace makes me fat, and my mother insists
I must hide my puffed up
nipples. I wear
this bra when I am
required to be a lady.
Once I mistook
my bra for a slipper and fell
like a Cinderella unable
to step into the coach.
I wear this slight band, hook-in-front-
under-a-tiny-red-flower when I think
I am skinnier today than yesterday by which I mean
a good girl.
This
beige blah
droopy D cup
bought
in a badly lit
basement
when
I am just
barely
adult.
This one all tight
and underwire, I wear when I want
the buff man at the bus stop,
the one with the naked calves, the one in the blaze
orange vest, the ones I will never
give my number to, to see
hard nipples.
For my lover’s eyes
to grow big and dark, I wear
hot pink, deep black, see-through
lace.
When I don’t want my students to even imagine
I have nipples, could ever
be aroused or even cold, I wear this
extra padded.
I’m a robot, a robot!
The first week of nursing, all
these buckles and snaps, lift-up flaps.
Because the Velcro’s weak, it scratches hard
engorged flesh.
two years of nursing on the couch in the bank at the zoo at the Thanksgiving table on the daycare floor when I’ve given up on support and just lift the bottom right off my ribs.
And here we have the assertively cheerful controlling
cross-back (it comes in blue! black!)
from the women-owned athletic wear co.
when I plan to run ten miles.
I don’t run one.
This one-time splurge—
blue flowers, gold stitching—comes out
on a cold morning when I would pay
anything to feel beautiful.
Soft,
old,
easy on,
easy off,
when
I
must
strip
for the mammogram’s
sharp cold edges.
I wear this bra when I want to be
like my grandmother or Madonna,
a full plated dragon.
of lace makes me fat, and my mother insists
I must hide my puffed up
nipples. I wear
this bra when I am
required to be a lady.
Once I mistook
my bra for a slipper and fell
like a Cinderella unable
to step into the coach.
I wear this slight band, hook-in-front-
under-a-tiny-red-flower when I think
I am skinnier today than yesterday by which I mean
a good girl.
This
beige blah
droopy D cup
bought
in a badly lit
basement
when
I am just
barely
adult.
This one all tight
and underwire, I wear when I want
the buff man at the bus stop,
the one with the naked calves, the one in the blaze
orange vest, the ones I will never
give my number to, to see
hard nipples.
For my lover’s eyes
to grow big and dark, I wear
hot pink, deep black, see-through
lace.
When I don’t want my students to even imagine
I have nipples, could ever
be aroused or even cold, I wear this
extra padded.
I’m a robot, a robot!
The first week of nursing, all
these buckles and snaps, lift-up flaps.
Because the Velcro’s weak, it scratches hard
engorged flesh.
two years of nursing on the couch in the bank at the zoo at the Thanksgiving table on the daycare floor when I’ve given up on support and just lift the bottom right off my ribs.
And here we have the assertively cheerful controlling
cross-back (it comes in blue! black!)
from the women-owned athletic wear co.
when I plan to run ten miles.
I don’t run one.
This one-time splurge—
blue flowers, gold stitching—comes out
on a cold morning when I would pay
anything to feel beautiful.
Soft,
old,
easy on,
easy off,
when
I
must
strip
for the mammogram’s
sharp cold edges.
I wear this bra when I want to be
like my grandmother or Madonna,
a full plated dragon.
Deborah Bacharach is the author of Shake and Tremor (Grayson Books, 2021) and After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). She has been published in journals such as The Adroit Journal, Poetry Ireland Review, Vallum, The Carolina Quarterly, and The Southampton Review among many others. She is an editor, teacher and tutor in Seattle.
Art: Public Domain