Bureaucracy & Boobs

By Lora Obrohta

The physician’s assistant apologizes,
As she presses and pats
The left side I cannot see, anymore,
Where I can only feel
Pain and stabs and pulls;
But I want to live.

So I say,
Breast Cancer is like Mardi Gras
I’ve flashed my chest so many times . . .
Don’t apologize,
Your work is going to save me
From ugly surprises.

Well, maybe.
We have no detector
For cancer.
But if that’s a lie, let’s keep it
Between us.

Only someone unhappy
To be here
Could think what’s left
Is ugly; scarred,
Worthless for babies,
Sex, or beads.

Well, maybe, for someone
Not trapped in
This meat ship.
But if that’s a lie,
Let’s keep it
Between us.

I’m no more the
Breast meat
That’s gone,
Than I am my hair
Or ass
Or mind.
It takes a lot of parts to be this much.

Well, yes.
And maybe,
If you’d like to sell
Something
To only one part,
Let’s keep that between us.