I Want a Red Bra

 ​Charlene Pierce​ 

I want a red bra 

not string lingerie, not sometimes 

and just for special occasion attire.  

I want a red bra  

no underwire, side wire, packed  

and pushed up, shoved together wire.  

Why does it matter if the straps show?  

I mean, come on, people already know.  

I’m not out to prove or show side boob.  

There’s no red carpet. I’m not Avant-Garde.  

I’m not a TikTok video, hashtag  

WhatMattersIsWhat’sUnderneath.  

I don’t want beige  

golden years, washed out nude – old is not prude  

can’t wear heels, knees hurt, feet ache.  

I don’t want beige  

boring, recliner years, drawn out, stare out  

the window, doing nothing special years.  

I want my hair running wild and long 

down my back. I’ll buy a hat 

to have something blow off in the wind. 

I want my hair untamed 

maybe au naturale, or maybe 

red, or purple, or peacock blue. 

I don’t want grey 

straight-laced, button-down be a good role model, 

after all, it’s not my fault the sky fell. 

I don’t want grey 

bland and blurred together days 

a stream of old movies cycling over and over and over. 

I want to go loud,  

pumping music, wake the neighbors 

show them what joy feels like. 

I want to go free 

glide from the tallest mountain, dive from the edge  

of a waterfall, swim to the sea. 

I don’t want to go silent. 

                                      Pick up a shell, hear me sing.