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.

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