Big Girl’s Blouse

In the good old days mutations appeared everywhere, 
and every second baby was a monster. 
I wish I could have lived then, neighbor 
to a gigantic young woman, like her pet hamster. 
Her body would grow a foot a day, her legs 
swell like tree trunks, and her childish play would
lay waste to housing estates. As adolescence 
flushed her limbs, I would look for the first stirrings 

of sexual desire. I would explore her body, crawling 
around her nipples like an exhausted pilgrim 
circumambulating a shrine, and when summer's
heat felled her vast bulk on the beach, I'd doze 
inside her blouse between her breasts like a kitten or 
James Stewart's invisible rabbit in Harvey.