Morgan Cross
SHOWING
In the dream I’m grocery shopping
with the tits cut out of my t-shirt. In the dream,
as in real life, I wear no bra. My tits are small
and unobtrusive, yet obtrusively, selfishly
protruding from the teardrop holes in my t-shirt.
It’s a grocery store. It’s too early, too late
in the day for this kind of demonstration.
It’s a band t-shirt, probably Fleet Foxes. It’s
dark green and wound in floral text, except where
my tits are, where the tits of the shirt should be.
It’s winter, why do it? For a pair of hard pea
nipples in the frozen section? A woman rounds
the corner, a teenage girl, an old man, children.
I keep crossing my arms over my chest but a tit
always manages to sneak out from under or over
an elbow. I don’t feel it when it happens.
But whoever I am talking to lowers their eyes
to my chest, and knits their brow, and this lets me
know that an important part of me is
showing.