I wonder if those hard little tits hurt more
shoved into the mammogram machine.
I wonder if they’ve ever had a sonogram,
been sung to by that gentle click and whir,
sat on the paper-lined table
and been told by a grim-faced technician
that the doctor will be right in.
No, I tell myself,
they are too young,
but then again,
so am I.
And I wonder
if anyone in her family has been tested,
if she knows about any risks.
Her tits are perfect
which is a stupid observation.
She’s in porn.
the job requirements might not be extensive
but I’m sure a flat stomach
and perfect tits are two of them.
The scar across my nipple stares up at me
like an expectant child waiting for its turn
on the merry-go-round.
The sticker, inked black by a technician with a sharpie
is a crosshair just below my clavicle.
It’s the marker where the radiation beam
must be shot
But for her
there is just skin
supple and young.
On the screen
the man, slick and shiny
and the girl
smiles a loose, gratified smile.
She makes the same face
I had hoped to make
on my own
which was the whole point of this.
The video ends
and I slide my hand
from between my legs,
roll over on the bed,
Fuck you, cancer.
You ruined even this.