The Wild

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