The
Mastectomy
"Katie,
it's malignant."
Six syllables--their broadside slap
on pale cheeks forgetting
they've ever been graced with kiss.
Cruel hurricanes of horror build,
sweeping a burning hut to sea.
Moon falls from onyx sky.
Left breast full. Right one, flat.
Like picked petunias
taking summer from August arms.
Courage seems just
painted toes in army boots.
Mortal is a see-through blouse.
What husband would
want to touch that hole?
Lace of all that's feminine
becomes a giant spider web
in attics hands will not go near.
Brownie
points of uttered prayer
set on fire by baking dread.
Nausea confirming nature's cruel joke.
Which is worse between the C's?
Chemo, Cancer, nurses putting
Callous up like fences girding
their privyness to flocks of ill.
Panic, a pickled jail cell
where every sunrise stays on hold.
Your body becomes
a piece of plastic furniture
turned upside down on windy decks
so seats will not succumb to gust.
Locks fall out like avalanches in a comb.
Today you just won't brush your hair.
Copyright © 2000 Janet I. Buck
