Telling My Mother I Have Cancer

I’m fine

as coarse wood. I can be sanded down, polished smooth, made anew.

I’m fine

as plump fish sold at the market. Frantic trout reeled in from a lake,
underneath rock. This hard place.

I’m fine

as a fall day with rain, wind. There’s still power. Only some trash
blew in.

I’m fine

as the thread in your needle. The one you flower from a thin line.

I’m fine

as silk you never wear. White, petaled at the neckline, embroidering
your frame. Let’s not worry about stain.

I’m fine

as grain. Barely perceptible. I can be cut out or strained.

I’m fine

as any edge you don’t die from. Stop thinking about a cliff or a knife.
Breast or no breast, I’ll thrive at the stake.

Three Low Tides

I.

The quiet song of nature is a bee buzzing. I’m not bothered,
but if my youngest heard it, she would be running
from the danger of it, no matter how much I tell her to stand
still, let fear go. It’s not coming for you, I say.
She’s been afraid ever since a tick latched onto her head
last spring. She played in the front yard for 30 minutes
when the grass was still dull, still flat from winter. I am guilty
of not thinking, guilty of not looking for small things
needling soft threads, burrowing deep. I bathed her
that night, pooled soap and shampoo, gathered it like kelp
at the top of her head. I told her it was princess hair
before I poured a small waterfall over her. It wasn’t enough
to drown the threat out. It stayed where I couldn’t see.

II.

My first mammogram is squeezing me in frame. I thought it
would be routine, another unpleasant bit of womanhood
hurting more than it should. A radiologist tells me
my tissue is dense. It doesn’t surprise me. Maybe I want
to be layered, complex, make it hard to see what’s in shadow
of me. I’ve heard you often call back for more
images with the first scan, I say. No, it’s not that, they say. We
found something. I go back, let them squeeze
the breath right out of me, let them take me to the ultrasound
machine, slide the wand over my left breast. The last time
I had one of these, it sailed over my belly. I was eager to find
small limbs, see a head buoy on screen, confirm everything
was pulsing, moving as it should be. This time, there’s no
watching, no wanting to see more. It’s all flickers
of lightning, a glitterless globe, static I can’t read.

III.

I want to revel in the beauty of trees, seaweed, textured rock,
barnacles in colors I’ve never seen, green growing
in unlikely places. But all I see are breasts. Breasts floating
in water. Boobs that are actually rock on a still body
of land. It’s all breasts, not in a fun, sexy way,
but in a I’m-scared-shitless kind of way. I’m counting
down days until my biopsy, until I find out if I’m reall
calcifying, striating inside like rock. A report says
I’m amorphous, tiny grains grouped like a school of fish.
I could be nothing. Statistically, I am nothing. I need to shift
my mindset. Isn’t this a way to ward off disease?
There’s a 50% chance I’m not malignant. Positive thinking,
I’ll try.