Underwire Boyfriend

He fits
like an underwire bra.
Stiff and new
awkwardly cupping
my breasts.
Poking my ribs
in a way that doesn't
make me laugh.
New bras are like that
bulges in the satin
straps too tight or sliding
down
at the wrong time.
So I bend out the ends
I wear him
against my curves
molding his fabric
over my chest.
I sweat
the heat of me
loosening him
softening him
until he fits
like second skin.

Now, he's a pleasure
he knows my body's
many moods
and he supports me
through them all.
He lifts me up
separates
my sorrows and
helps me present my
perky side
to the world.
I tuck small treasures
in the small space
between us,
and he keeps my
secrets
safe.

But the heat of me
that melted him
to me
keeps melting
keeps stretching.
The soft satin
wears thin
and the elastic
that held us together
gathers split-ends
and fly-aways.
He sags
under
the weight of
my breasts.

But I can't bear
to throw him out.
I tuck him in my
drawer.
His days of ladies
locker room admiration
are over
and my friends
don't see why I keep him.
But I still take him out,
wear him on those days
when it's just the two
of us.
I still wear him
when I want
comfort.

Heather Shaw
July 20, 1998

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