So many years have passed
since the tragic loss of your bosom,
described by Plato himself
as surpassing the power of language—
all across our American highways,
the slick tableaux of truck stops
speak to the same want
for nature’s koan, for adipose
with or without gowns thin as tissues.
Tonight, more than Athens,
more than the cinders of Alexandria
or this daily strain on democracy,
I mourn your lost breasts.
If only Plato thought to note
whether they were haiku or sestinas.
If only we, too, could be
loved for what costs us nothing.