The news came in blows–bashes
to the heart, a butcher
beating a pound of meat.
The doctor said it was your breast,
that sack of fat that hung
so peacefully along your torso.
That soft small pouch which carried a secret,
a coin purse hiding stolen money.
It was that round raisin spout
that oozed liquid love,
what had once nurtured life
only now, to take it away.
The chemo was cold,
in the midst of winter.
The doctor said your hair would go,
that those sun brushed locks would fall,
an autumn tree flaking its leaves.
Your nurtured garden,
to be plucked and uprooted,
picking carrots, bare and bald.
The disease crept up– multiplied,
a bomb of ants
ravishing a crumb of bread.
The doctor said that it had spread
to the cauliflowerd bumps between your hips,
to the heart shaped tubes that cradled
the unwanted mass, a *******
born without a father.
It was an attack your womanhood,
the predator, a ghostly outline
that lingered faintly in the scan.
The surgery took hours–heartbeats,
the wife of a soldier
waiting to hear of survival.
The doctor said they cut you open,
scraped it out, a pumpkin
scooped and carved on Halloween night.
Your gooey insides probed and poked,
until the rest of it was gone.
He said they shut you with staples,
a spine–like trailed railroad track,
that the skin around turned yellow,
while you looked sore and dead.
The healing happened slowly,
an infected wound
spewing pus then scabbing over.
The doctor said that you were clear,
like fresh water, clean and pure.
He said your hair would start to grow,
spring up like tulips
from beneath your scalp.
and you smiled so warmly–
the sun had baked your mouth.
Not only had your body healed,
but your soul.
*n a k e d* branches
A *b a s t a r d* born without a father