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 rolls metal in gel.
Traveling this ultrasound moonscape,

I see black pools pulse like tar pits.
She reassures, just cysts.

Poured into warm cotton held close,
my chaste white communicants

return to their warm-scented knit,
eyes like pink crocuses in snow,

roots delicate and lacey in red earth,
my certain garden, my creamy whole.

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