Perhaps in time, I won’t think
about my breasts. Soft robins
of flesh once above my waist.
Each spring, they would spread
flat on the machine. Wings
stretched against a metal cloud.
I sucked a breath, a whir,
syllabled a prayer, a doctor smiled–
No cancer. But not this year.
Cut from their fleshy nest, they left
nothing but bare branches, radial
lines scraped clean. Now, I move
from one moment into the next,
and into the one after. Breathing.
Their memory a day-flying thing.
Now, I am safer outdoors, testing
the wild. The open, round hills.
The chance of living around me.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 3.
See all items about Nancy Huxtable Mohr