Kris Becker
FIRST MAMMOGRAM
Three bright points appear
on the radiant image,
the breast washed of color,
beautiful as the moon.
Full as a water pot.
Full as gray clouds.
The specks, doctor
says, can’t be ignored (I’m sorry),
their lucent constellation
too organized, too linear,
shaft of an arrow pointing
somewhere. It’s nowhere
I want to go.
Chest pale, face burning,
body moon-crested and rising
somewhere icy, I
schedule the incursion.
Silently howling, I will do
this thing, face down on a table,
numbed, then pierced, then waiting.
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