Her boobs decided that they no longer need a house.
Because they've got nothing to lose.
They're no longer worried about the loose straps,
that would peep underneath the blouse.
or the one black brazier that reminded them of the famous song, , "Where you go I'll go."
Or of Naomi and Ruth.
On a cold morning, they poke at everyone they meet.
Frozen and itchy.
Sometimes sensitively painful to remind her that she's about to bleed.
They have the freedom to swing,
North and South without being caged underneath tight bras.
To the direction of the winds and to the rhythm of her haste..
Independence at last.
©Elizabeth Opiyo
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