Her probe strokes my breasts.
Young woman, white coat,
short blond hair like Sandy Duncan, studies a screen.
Shivering I squirm, brumal metal bed
as her wand shifts left, deep within my pit. Her
countenance revealing a flash of pity as
she shoves hair behind her ear, rubs
my shoulder, orders me to contort my arm
high above my head, gel
warms my chest, like Bubby’s Camphor oil,
more computer clicks,
the doctor has arrived.
Mass, tumor, growth,
small, stage, spread
Arrows, I cannot avoid, zinging
just like they did at my children’s father,
just sixteen months ago,
he is dead.
Delivered into a small room, pink robed,
I sit alone
chair in a corner, little Jack Horner,
poster of a smiling woman tacked to
a beige wall,
fiddle with bracelets, twirl the curls
of my hair, blow my nose,
the clock pounds.
A nurse struts in, takes
my temperature, checks my
blood pressure, tells me
I have Cancer…
So I trade my
old tits in-
bruised avocados for
(C) 2019 Stacey Z. Lawrence, All Rights Reserved.
Published in VITA BREVIS