Note: A few years ago, the San Francisco Public Library asked me to submit something for a book they were putting together about their library. Send anything, they said, as long as it's about the library. So I sent a poem about mammary memory in the reading room. Hey, they asked for it. The event described in the poem actually happened - I was there to witness. But for some reason, they didn't think it was appropriate and left it out of their glossy big book. Judge for yourself.
The white-haired doddering gentle old man
in the crushing silence of the public library
blinking through spectacles
writes with shaking hands
in a pocket notebook
unaware that he is muttering to himself:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
Eyes peer over books. Pencils pause,
except the old man's. Fingers
mark pages. We await,
expectant, puzzled. He has pulled a dusty volume
from the shelf of his memory
and still writing, whispers, hissing:
"Her breasts. . ."
I want to know: Was it in moonlight?
Hurried? Forbidden?
Dear woman, do you know that after half a century
not only your lover but a whole reading room
of men and women are sharing - are in awe of -
your stunning warmth:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
2/13/88
© Copyright 2001 by Joe CottonwoodNext: At last