Aligning the frame 

 

He said
on the phone,
“you have nice breasts.”

Later,
under the bathroom light,
I stand naked,

​

turning a little,
then a little more,
like I’m aligning a frame
on a crooked wall.

I cup them,
let them fall,
test their gravity,
their swing,
the way they remember
every year I’ve lived.

They’re not “nice.”
They’re heavier on the left,
freckled on the right,
a bit ridiculous when I raise my hands,
soft when I don’t.

They’ve been in hospital gowns,
under sports bras,
pressed against winter coats
on late trains home.

I watch them
as if they’re old friends
I haven’t really noticed
in a while.

The mirror hums
with its usual honesty.

I breathe,
thumb brushing a faint stretch mark
like reading a line of Braille,

feeling the weight of his words
disperse,

and realizing
this body
has been having its own conversation
with time

long before
he ever dialed my number.

​

© Sreedhari Desai