With her finger touching the pink
and purple diagram, the doc explains
dye will flow through milk ducts
to the Sentinel Lymph Nodes,
making tracer stains
where the scalpel must go.
She doesn’t need to say that cells
are pawns of nature’s lunatic changes,
that no one’s guilty,
nor that years nuzzling those
wrapped in baby blankets
failed to protect the breast.
Something in you opened,
your cup runneth over
We’re here now, she says,
whatever the past was.
Get dressed. Don’t fret.
you comb through her brisk words
and find she’s right, death backs off,
while inside, seething, voracious
cells keep eating estrogen,
growing fat from your bruised,
but still intact, breast.