- I Must Be the Wind
Blouse and bra taken off,
I embrace the cold machine.
The strong anxious smell of ethylene
penetrates my crushed breasts.
Both arms raised like a defeated soldier,
I surrender to the mammogram
looking for a moon dark spot.
These breasts wrapped tight in lace
since my teens.
Though everyone has them
only women's are a problem;
like a sheaf of shameful confessions
breasts are kept a deep secret.
Our mothers fed us
wisdom and love through them
fertile hills of mammalian nature.
Fortunately I've owned two but
for a long time they were not mine;
they belonged to my lover
or to my babies.
naked flesh embracing a machine
I own them to the depth of my bones.
These sad, drooping breasts,
clear moons being probed for dark spots.