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my left breast
microcalcification:
seven syllables
suddenly measure my life
the radiologist's eyes
radiate pity
as if (as IF)
i could read the smeared fog
on the photographic plate
(my left breast, squashed like a bug;
damn, if men had to have this done,
this machine would surely be more human--
at least rounded like a person,
receptive
like a woman
like my left breast--
i giggle to myself:
maybe my right breast will be
the only one
left)
i look longingly
at the other women
who get to leave,
who get to remove
this un-dress,
put on their street clothes,
join the world
i'm left,
hustled into a little room,
a doctor i've never met, and
someone else (who?) i've never met, and
little brochures shoved into my hands
like dry leaves
covered in long words
equally dry
the doctor
(a man)
is uncomfortable
i can tell by what he
doesn't say
the word "cancer" dances in the air
unuttered, but
utterly
imaginable
and
terrifying
the words coming out of the doctors mouth
are blah blah blah
and my mind begins to feel around
for something to hold,
or that can hold
me.
i find it:
one real thing,
and clamp my arm tight
so it can't get away:
the round motherly warmth
of my left breast
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haunting. exposed.
i particularly 'liked' (for lack of a better word) the lines -
who get to remove
this un-dress,
put on their street clothes,
join the world
they were direct, honest and chilling.
i thought the use of perenthisis were also very effective.
*shelved* |
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| Very touching. There are so many women (more recently young women) who have to go through this and cannot express what they feel to anyone. I think this poem sums up what goes through some of their minds as they sit in waiting. Thank you. |
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| Another great piece. Tremendous feeling, and I'm certain a difficult thing to share, but sooooooooo important. You may be helping someone to watch for signs and get those terrible exams. It this was YOUR story, I hope that things have gone well for you. We need to do all we can to beat Cancer. I doubt there'e a familly that has not been touched by this disease in some way, directly or indirectly. Thanks for sharing, Suzanne. Janet |
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| this is very very good. it a very good way of expressing a bad experience, and it's very brave of you to put this out there. i really enjoyed reading this though, it made me feel as if i was going through this, and made me really understand what it must be like. very well-written :) |
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| The poem makes you feel close to the narrator, largely because of her quiet confiding voice and human touches like "(who?)". I felt the image of the brochures being like dry leaves was too predictable, and dragged the poem down a bit. Also I felt a poet should open up "i look longingly at" rather than state it - I would prefer my imagination to creat her looking longingly rather than simply being told how she looked. I loved the clarity of this poem, its intimacy. It's an awful subject (so many readers will have experiences of or near cancer) and could have been protrayed morbidly or with self pity, but the lightness of this poem's language and its tabla-drum rhythm makes it palatable to the reader and presses the point home very effectively. I'm sure this can be published. |
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