At the Mammogram Clinic on Sunday Morning
by Linda Derezinski
The professionally cheery technician orders: “Take a breath and hold it.”
The machine bites, tight and clinically cold; it
Clenches, I flinch, and steel myself not to inhale.
She rejiggers the angle, then hauls up my meat to mold it,
My pale slab of flesh surrounded by shine and silver gleam
Of diagnostic promise. The skin of my breasts sags and folds; it
Feels newsprint papery, temporary, released. What chunk lurks?
What dangerous nugget, and what fat and flesh enfold it?
In the changing room, white light chirps and whines,
As I smell my soft, unwashed body, find my bra unfolded
And re-tether myself, shoes laced, bound up, squeezed dry.
I have another year until, by my mother’s tattoos scolded,
I must return. I drive home the long way to wait three days for news.
Sit down, Linda, let your worry extend a hand. Hold it.
***
Linda is a teacher, mother, singer, gardener, knitter, and now, a writer. At 56 years old, she is a new poet, developing the faith to write and craft in a voice she is discovering.
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