Bare (a poem about breasts)

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Bare

I’m not doing anything wrong
Not even the prudes next door can complain
about a bare-breasted woman
picking beans in her own back yard.

So why do you?

Why does it shock you to see me
collecting veggies
in the same state of dress in-which you barbecue?

Oh, I know,
it wasn’t all that long ago
when things were different
When those neighbours could have called the police
claimed I was “exposing myself”
“committing indecent acts”
Or otherwise endangering their precious Family
Values

You never had to live with that

You didn’t grow up
(age five, daddy explaining that it’s different
For boys...
But not why)
hearing over and over
how your body made you weak
and dangerous
at the same time

You tell me
You think it's unsafe,
That anyone could see me

This from the man who
behind closed doors
grabs bits of my body he knows
I don’t want him to touch

Tell me

How can I bare my soul to you
How can I
take of my clothes
the veils of euphemism
story and
silence

if I can’t bare my body without risking
your hands
your suspicion
your discomfort