Earlier I promised to post some of the old poems I’ve been meaning to share, so that I wouldn’t be tempted to post them on some lame-o day during the 365 poems, 365 days challenge. Ok, so this one needs some explanation. Early in 2013, I had a double mastectomy with a muscle-sparing tram flap reconstruction. In real talk, I got some boobs made from my stomach. Because we live in the future. Before my surgery my friends threw me a Boob Voyage party, where we played games and laughed and shared this. It is scary as shit to share with people, and sounds a lot better spoken than read, and trigger-warning, this is about boobs and removing them, but here it is:
Boob Voyage: or An Ode to My Mammaries
I wonder where in the bible of bedside manner it tells the young mother of two woodland sprites a ticking time bomb
I wonder if Mr. Matter-of-fact knows that the choice between chopsaw and lightening illness deserves a bit of tact.
you arrived late to the party. Serena in ballet class got her pretty porcelain teacups two years before me and I stared so hard she pirouette and called me dyke.
And you could’ve sprouted more. Padded everything, miracle of miracle bras, nothing to cleave, flat as a board, sunken treasure. Cop-a-feel, sportsbra—unnecessary. I should’ve loved you more.
Then you swelled with life and became udderly functional, nourishment drip drip dripping from your ductwork, nerve endings of intimate life juice, precious babymouth relief, all is love.
and after, two deflated jack-0-lanterns left on the stoop, two withered dugs pulled to the earth by gravity and motherhood and wise.
loved you then. I wonder if Mr. Thousand-Framed-Degrees knows how the word “insensate” feels. And why is this office so cold?
I loved you in the bedroom, two heartstrings leading straight to my root, took him in your clasp and dropped my honey apricots into his mouth.
I would’ve two handed carassed my woman forever.
and as I release this pink balloons, as I watch them rise and float away,
I only have this to say: You will try to kill me. So you have to go. You fucking bitches.