For a Young Friend Who Wants a Bra

Nothing yet.

Soon enough the fabric

buckles, deploys boys.

Your lively thoughts play

down the street, overheard

by mothers who wish

they had the energy,

the same instrumentation

of imagination.

Memory shames.

I kept a growth chart

of breast progress,

held a loopy washcloth

over my chest in the tub

and cupped my hands

over the nothing

that was there. I hoped,

and then I lost interest,

and packed a bag

to run away from home.

I lost interest in that too,

the idea sillier than

saving my nickels

for a chihuahua.

Don’t worry.

You’ll grow as you’ve grown,

an arrangement so fetching

you won’t even notice, lost

in the drowsy navigation

of your beautiful days.