The small breast performs a lowly function.
When not lactating,
It serves to remind us of our shortcomings in the sex bomb department
My flatness
Confuses my audience into thinking I must be bright
My little mosquito bites
Itch, pushing me to buy that wonderbra;
My undeveloped pectorals
Send me in search of a silicon workout.
I dream more often, and more consistently
Of cleavage and Pamela Anderson,
Than does my adolescent sibling
Tossing among wetted sheets.
At least he has an excuse.
My boyfriend attempts to cheer me up
‘more than a handful’s wasted’, he says,
with one eye on my inspirational poster of madhuri on the wall
and I bend back to my task of pleasing him,
in the only way I know how.
There must be a happy ending to my tale of too little
Some form of self assurance
Some post-modern-feminist statement that makes everything ok…
Germaine Greer, where are you now?
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