In the Biopsy Room
By Jean Trounstine
My breast has swallowed something
bulbous, the size of a walnut,
the texture of cotton swabs. How
obvious it is, this thing, this invader
who leaves tracks. This is a lump,
this whoosh of light on a gray veiny surface:
mammogram begging to be noticed,
A terrible lack of certainty floods the room
where years of my breasts shine
above me on a screen. X-rays
like eyes in the darkness
throw me into a world of fear.
Copyright © by the owner.
