A Healing Art
A girlfriend found one in her breast
while still in college. One day
a woman read her palm and tarot cards,
pressed a hand against her chest,
another to her back, applied white light
and made it disappear. One night
my fingers touch my skin to prove
I am still here, and here, and here –
to forgive a body less than loved or trusted.
I find I cannot keep my hand away, slip my fingers
between lace and blouse, seeking proof
of what I own. I want to take hands
and press them close, say:
here is truth of what I’ve been.
I want to feel white light, the warm remedy
of touch against the poison of my skin.
Instead the surgeon snips me open,
allows the wound to spill like sugar
from a packet, instead the surgeon tells me
that my scars will heal, rubs his hands together
like a cartoon villain on the verge of stealing,
says: I want to warm my hands before
I touch you, and smiles, assuming humor,
pressing palm against my chest.
I want to hold him there, the weight
compressing tape and flesh, say:
I’ve given you nothing. Say:
I only let you take
what I no longer wanted.
For the We Write Poems weekly prompt.
mareymercy. 
“my fingers touch my skin to prove
I am still here, and here, and here –
to forgive a body less than loved or trusted.”
Sometimes we have to do that…
a cross
Thanks for stopping by!
fantastic. truly.
Thank you, nan!
Touching, beautifully written.
I only let you take
what I no longer wanted.
And sometimes the trick is to know when we no longer want what we have…
Thank you, Ruth!
This is not an easy poem to read through. It amazes me when one can put together something of this stength of construction and quality. Art doesn’t have to leave one smiling — sometimes it forces one to look or to search.
Thank you!
This one is one of my favorites. I love the speaker’s power–how she takes it back from the surgeon. The repetition of “instead” resonates perfectly.
Thanks, Mel. I still like this one too.
A strong piece. As emotionally complex as your subject.
I like that breathless amazement of the first stanza as a contrast to what follows.
Thanks – there was an element of affection/fascination with the potential cancer as much as there was fear. It was not all revulsion and animosity. Strange.
The constant palm on the chest and touching held me throughout the poem. Powerful poem. I bought a pink pin recently. The pun in the slogan: Treasure the breast things in life.
Oh dear. Well the sentiment is proper. 🙂