An Old Woman’s Blason    

Exposed to the full length mirror they stand,
half-assed erect, not round, firm or full,
nor voluptuous or succulent, they sag.
Both beg— lift us with cupped palms, sop moisture
beneath folds of soft skin, ease gravity’s
pull on pectorals, be the support we need.  

Simultaneously gnarled fingers pinch
two tips, feel hardness in response to tweaks.
Manual manipulation raises
their southbound projection, fights the grave’s pull.
Headlights momentarily realigned
I’m blinded by a beauty no one sees.