On Going Topless in Ibiza
One is plump, one deflated as a dirty balloon.
But they are healthy, no cancer at work inside them.
Always found them unsightly, ridiculously etched with train tracks of stretch marks traversing them.
Heavy things, fibrous, bulgy.
Unsightly to me.
It is high white noon in Playa d’en Bossa when I walk topless into the sea.
On the shore line a woman in vertiginous white platforms and matching bikini strides by, slinging a bottle of rum the color of a sick mans’ urine.
An African teenager walks past me wearing a totem pole of straw hats stacked on his head, which I imagine, sweats beneath them. In his outstretched arms a carnival of colored parreos draped and very much for sale.
His eyes are like small universes.
Don’t look at me.
It is because I am but an animal in water.
And I am excruciatingly alive, at this moment, here, in the warm sea.
Should I find myself lucky enough to swim again.