Morning Mastectomy

Photo by Dawn Sanborn

Morning Mastectomy

She's standing there, rubbing sleep from her eyes,
glistening tear not from sorrow but sun.
Waking only in body;
she's refrained from coming into the morning
like most would do...

Instead, called...into a field of women,
lining up north and south of Dexter, wanting to dance
and yet unable. Their feet...and hers...
planted into generations of races:
the dirt and yellowing soybeans, Indian corn,
decaying leaves of stalks now stripped.
Skinless beings standing tall. Smooth stature,
outstretched arms; hundreds and hundreds
of white appendages, slicing the air onto her plate.

Like them, there's no end to the women
who they represent -- proud, faceless beings.
Mothers, daughters, sister, grandmothers, aunts, nieces.
In the midst of the new mommas
is where she fights for life,
holding dreams that have begun to slip away;
dawn cracking an egg, sunny side up,
into the day. Arms that cradled babies,
washed them tenderly, rocked them to sleep
...now clutch air.
     Whirling
            windmills
                slicing
        slicing
slicing.
       Counting sheep,
backwards...
                       ten,
             nine,
eight.

Slicing bread,
warmed from the oven;
this is how the afternoon will feel. But for now,
fresh raspberry jam, cool cream.
Air still chilled.

Cutting the atmosphere. Cloudless.
Just the cold, sharp blades
where her breasts should be.
Wind turbines, they're called
by those who created them.

Instead....

She sees her fellow sisters lined up
in rows across the Midwest,
and the world, up
at the breaking of dawn,
sharing the breaking of bread, the making
of bread...the making of love with a body
so foreign...mechanical -- arms moving,

     around
        and
     around

kneading the silicone loaves
into the fabric of her shirt,
pressed tightly to a chest where
nothing else remains.

Michelle Fimon
© 2010