The Biopsy

The damage has already been done
when you find yourself stranded
after the mammogram and ultrasound.

They've seen everything
your breast transparent
as an old slip,

the old white t-shirt wet
with friction and some virulent strain
of death.

In the old days
any woman would call a truce
and put up her hands to end things

before a wire as thick as radio antenna
is inserted into the skin under her nipple
where nothing will ever flutter again.

It is time for vespers
when the radiologist and third year medical student
ask you to raise your hand over your head
as they dive into the ocean of your body,
deep into the sacred places
near your open heart.