In the Mirror
by Jean Trounstine

    Breast cradled in a bandage,
    too soon to see the scar,
    the ravaged skin,
    the underarm bruise,
    I imagine Bob’s hand
    cupping my breast,
    gently, the length of him
    pressed up against me
    to soften the blow.
    There’s still magic marker
    on my chest.

    I take attendance,
    hair on my head
    and all my facial parts, intact.
    Stomach, hips, legs,
    they all seem smaller,
    thinner from weeks of fear,
    mangled good fortune.
    They say A mirror has two faces.

    We didn’t have to take your nipple,
    a mantra, echoing
    in the quiet of my room,
    the evening light casting warmth
    on this pale body.
    I stare at flesh that will heal,
    quiet my ache with a cotton tee,
    wrap myself in a robe.






Copyright 2021 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.