The Wild
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. 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 Cedar Press Review May 2020