In the bluest of rooms, I am awash in X-ray white.
My body’s on lease to strangers:
Wrapped in paper, I mourn my lost topography,
my front yard with its swings and sand box.
Around one breast a radiologist ...
She has no fear of her body.
When she drank the olive oil and lemon juice
the gallstones drained from her
like an overturned bag of marbles.
When others see sickness, she sees
a farmer who knows when to br...
In the chemo room it’s impossible
to tell if the doors are opening or
closing in a hall that did not echo.
The big wrinkled chairs were elephant
tan by yellow containers shouting,
Advice at a homemaker’s workshop:
Make your bed first so the sense
of accomplishment pushes you on
Written on a blackboard:
Who Am I?
They call it acoustic shadows: in the Civil War