Healing
Two weeks after radiation,
you slowly slide your index finger
across your gristly areola,
gently peel the dark brown skin from your left breast.
Tiny flakes fall to the floor,
an odor, like the smell of dirt in the cracks of a child's neck.
Your right breast: almost ivory, soft pink nipple,
accompanies the ghostly lingering of the left side.
And you're naked in the mirror,
hairs wet from the morning shower,
armpits damp from sweat already gathering
as you softly rub ointment on your tender scar,
feel the slight indent, gravity filling it in.
You hesitate before getting dressed,
eyes trace the brown scalene triangle
from your left breast, extending slightly
into the shade of health on your right side.
You feel a silence of process: that languid,
invisible sketching of the path
you've taken to heal your body.
It's something like that dream you remember
from childhood: the brook crossing that doesn't end,
you're caught somewhere mid stream,
deaf amid a strong current, cold water
soothing hot toes through sneakers.
