Joel Lester Oppenheimer (Jacob Hammer) (February 18, 1930 – October 11, 1988) was an American poet associated with both the Black Mountain poets and the New York School. He was the first director of the St. Marks Poetry Project (1966–1968). Though a poet, Oppenheimer was perhaps better known for his columns in the Village Voice from 1969 to 1984.
THOSE INNOCENT BREASTS
Joel Oppenheimer
the innocence of her
breasts. the way in
the sooft morning, as
she leaned over him,
reaching to see the
time, they hung tender
and innocent.
just
six hours earlier, as
in many other beds,
they had been hard
and passionate as
pomegranates, and a
few hours before
that, every man at
the party wanted them.
go further back: ten
months ago they had
been filled with
milk, and the boy
suckled, and the
man held back his
hands and lips–now
they were not his.
we are all, we know
now, bone-pickers after
darwin, rag-pickers after
marx, brain-pickers
after freud–we are
trying to reconstruct
our history, breasts
are a sexual attribute, they
hang warm and innocent
in the morning
four
hours later, at the
forum, fortunately or
not, those breasts took
over the conversation.
after all man is a
political animal also.
and can figure a way
to breasts even with
war. but she was embarrassed,
saying, they’re not
even that good. and he:
you didn’t think i’d
mention your ass, did you?
and the politics of
breasts leads men into
madness, tumbling over
each other in a
mad race for a
sight, touch, taste.
i won’t be blamed
for it–i unabashedly
stare through every
see-through blouse,
look down every low
neckline, peer carefully
through the right
kind of armhole, it
is nobody’s fault, we
are born to love them,
even though they are
difficult to make
love to.
the buttocks
at least are truly
functional, allowing
man mobility, agility,
speed. the breasts hang
innocent in the morning
light. at night they
tighten in desire; in
the evening they peep
provocatively. the
young man asked plaintively
whether lenin has ever
wondered about the cup-sizes|
of fellow revolutionaries.
i hope so–this is how
the revolution gets
made.
in the morning light
he ached to touch them,
catch the weight and the
softness in his hand, but
could not, some obscure
idea made him watch,
while she thought him
still asleep, they were
too innocent in the
morning light. he thought
it no time for the carnal,
though he laughed as he
thought that, he preferred
the thoughts he was
having, to the action–
not perversely, but as
a special delight.
besides,
after the forum, they
would nap, in the warm
afternoon, and the meat
of it, the true carnality,
would carry them. the
breasts hung innocent
in the morning light.