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.
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