My Breast

By Meg Dolan. Queensland, Australia

I want to speak to my breast—
not as shadow or threat,
not as a grayscale blur on a radiologist’s screen—
but as my own:
soft, sentient twin,
a custodian of memory,
cradling decades in quiet flesh.

When I was young,
I was timid, self-effacing,
folding you into cardigans and careful posture.
Until love—
wild, worshipful, unbidden—
coaxed you into radiance.

Petite, yes, but proud:
I found fleeting bravado
in the way my lovers lingered,
lips like liturgy upon your curve.
They were grateful—
as if you were offering
ambrosia, not just skin.

But before desire,
you were nourishment.
A chalice of milk.
A wellspring of life.
You ached, engorged, and yielded
to the cries of infancy—
a sacred biology
that no poem quite captures.

In adolescence,
you rose slowly, like dusk—
hesitant, spectral,
a hush before womanhood.
Now, you arc downward with time,
your silhouette softened,
your tissue perhaps seeded
with mutiny.

You are sinking—yes—
but not in shame.
In gravity’s honesty.

Society still orbits you,
obsessed with your rhythms,
your bloom and your betrayal.
You are fetish and fear,
billboard and biopsy,
elegy and icon.

I rest my broken spectacles upon you now,
as I lie in reprieve—
you, my makeshift altar,
still cradling the parts of me
I can no longer focus on.

I want to hear you speak—
before they name or numb you.
Before cold hands press for signs.

What would you whisper,
if allowed?

Would you say,
I held so much love?
Would you ask,
Must I only be seen in fear?

My breast,
you are not malignancy.
You are memory,
mythology,
a site of sweetness, sorrow,
and survival.

And if this is to be goodbye,
let it not be clinical—
but ceremonial.
Let it not be margins—
but music.

Let your swan-song be sung
in full voice,
echoing from the marrow
of the woman who lived
through you.

My Breast (In a Whisper)

Come here, love—
let me rest my hand on you,
not to prod or press,
but just to feel
what’s always been there.

My breast,
you have never spoken aloud,
but I’ve heard you.

In the hush of early morning,
when I cradle broken glasses on your slope,
or when I lie still and breathe through worry,
you are there—quietly holding me.

I remember when I was young,
shrinking inside jumpers,
afraid of being seen,
unsure of your shape,
unsure of myself.

And how slowly,
tenderly,
confidence grew.

You were admired—
soft, petite, a secret I shared in shadows.
Lovers smiled into you.
Their hands, kind. Their eyes, thankful.
You were never just form—
you were welcome.

Long before that,
you fed life.
You swelled with milk,
and I watched you nourish
with a grace I barely understood.

As a girl, you bloomed slow,
shy at first,
like a flower unsure of sun.

Now you lower with time,
gently, honestly,
tissue softer,
maybe troubled—
but still mine.

They say there may be something.
A shadow, a question.
A word no one wants to speak too soon.

I say:
You are not a threat.
You are a story.
A sacred part of me.

My breast,
you have been a vessel,
a home, a memory-keeper,
a site of passion and peace.

The world watches you
far too much—
with hunger,
with judgement,
with fear.

I watch you now
with love.
With thanks.
With calm.

And if you must leave,
let me say goodbye gently—
not with panic,
but with poetry.

Not in margins,
but in music.

Let it be known:
you mattered.

You still do.

Meg Dolan is an Australian self-published new author who has one book, Story: Reflective Poetry (2017), and a number of poems published in journals, including “Tipton Poetry Journal” (IN); “The Sunflower Collective” (LA); “SKYLIGHT 47” (UK); “Lifelines at Dartmouth” (MA); “Nature Writing” (UK); “Eureka” (Australia); “ditch” (Canada); “Disability Tales” (UK); “Poetry Potion” (2024), and others.

Meg was lucky to have positive press coverage in newspapers across the state of Queensland, and a positive review by The Red Room Company (Australia) regarding her book, which shows a reflective style of writing. Meg’s writing demonstrates elements of whimsy, transparency of feelings, abstractions, and may present as illustrative through her use of sensory and colourful words and imagery.

Meg is self-taught and formerly worked in mental health as a therapist and support person. Meg’s education and qualifications are in counselling. She is now retired due to an illness and has taken to writing as an outlet.

Meg really admires and feels inspired by renowned local and international poets, including Sam Wagan Watson, Dylan Thomas, Lord Byron, Les Murray, Clive James, Judith Wright, Dorothea Mackellar, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Yeats, Ocean Vuong, Kevin Young, Sharon Olds, Henri Cole, T.S. Eliot, Mary Oliver, Wordsworth, Jacob Polley — and many of the Bloodaxe Book poets.