by Abe Murley Chest of Drawers by Christy Costello My mother’s breast lives in my chest of drawers. It remains there quietly in case | need it. It is a good breast, firm, b-cup, meant for an average, b-cup kind of woman. When the spirit moves me | visit it, take it out of its tourquoise velvet bag with the black cord and hold it in my hand. You've probably figured out by now that it isn't a real breast. "Honestly," my mother would say, "Honestly, that is an awful thing to say.” An awful thing? It is tucked away neatly with some others, but they are fabric forms that don’t mimic real life so intently. Tucked in the back of a pine drawer, it waits. | cup my right breast with my left hand and feel how it just fills my palm. Its nipple is intact, its various lumps and irregularities familiar to me and | wonder if my lover would know the difference. | wonder if he would know that this breast (the real one) could be mine or my mother’s and that. the heart beating underneath it could be mine or hers as well. In a fit of spring cleaning | remove my moth- er's breast from the chest of drawers Poetry and lay it on the bed beside the lingerie | no longer wear and the sweaters whose necks are stretched or whose cuffs are worn. They are destined for the Salvation Army and when | see into the future, my mother’s breast sits on a shelf in the Broadway and MacDonald store beside a pottery mug that someone made by hand. The mug is a brownish-pink colour, its glaze irregular, its handle slightly chipped. My mother’s breast glows perfect beside it, emanating a soft light from within the loosely tied tourquoise velvet bag. But | cannot imagine my mother’s breast occupying another woman's body. It is more mine, after all, than anyones. More, even, than | ever thought the original was and | think, well, it may really be mine some day. | cup my mother’s breast in my hand, removed now from its velvet home and compare it to mine. It is smooth, nipple-less, but contains skin cells I'm sure that once occupied the space on her chest. | think of burying it somewhere erecting a monument that | could visit but for now the chest of drawers will do. 42 Bet we manased to find each other again. influx: Magazine April 1999 eS for 3 weeks. liked 4, dink Ms. Paths couch He founel out that Ms. Pratt ale of wine. She would get very dtunk and yes che Jould ak telling me the slot Be Gust told a Chest of Drawers by Christy Costello. ‘My mothers breos lives in my chest of drawers. It remains there quietly in case | need. Itis good breast, firm, b-cup, ‘meont for on average, bbreup kind of women. When the spirit moves me I vit, toke it out of its tourquoise velvet bog with the block cord ‘ond hold itn my hond. ‘You've probably figured out by now that it isn'ta real breast. “Honestly,” my mother would soy, "Honestly, that is on awful thing to soy” ‘An awul thing? Iris tucked away neatly with some others, but they ore fabric forms thot don't mimic rea life so intently Tucked inthe back of o pine drawer, it waits | cup my right breost with my left hand ‘ond feel how i ust fils my polm. Is nipple is intact, its various lumps ‘ond ireguortes faiior tome and I wonder if my lover would know the difference. | wonder ihe would know that this breast (the real one! could be mine or my mother's ond thatthe heart beating underneath it could be mine or hers 0s wel. In fit of spring cleaning remove my moth- ‘r's breast from the chest of drawers Poetry ‘ond layit on the bed beside the lingerie Ine longer wear ‘ond the sweaters whose necks are stretched or whose cuffs They ore destined for the Salvation Army ‘ond when 1:00 into the future, my mother's breast sts on a shelf in the Broodway and MacDonald store beside @ pottery mug that someone made by hand. The mugis@ brownishpirk colour, its laze irvegulor, its handle sightly chipped My mother's breast glows perfect beside i, ‘emanating o soft light from within the loosely tied tourquoise velvet boo. But | cannot imagine my mother's breost ‘occupying ‘nother woman's body. is more mine, aftr all, hon anyone's Mere, even, than I ever thought the original was cond I think, wel, it may really be mine some doy. | cup my mother's breast in my hand, removed now from ts velvet home ‘ond compare it to mine. Is smooth, rippl-less, but contains skin cells Tm sure that once occupied the space on her chest. | think of burying it somewhere ‘erecting a monument thot I could visit but for now the chest of drawers will do. Ff we merged te influx: Magazine April 1999 She would get ver! the the sey Xj Me: Petts couch ZL frond oof shat Msfreth ed to dkink let of wie.