Megan wakes up after her double mastectomy.

there has been no organized protest in the night. No placard's;

banners strewn

illuviation prepared the morning for your faults.

No contemptuous cocky boldness. No disregard at all.

No convenient hand from the god of

myth

placed on the back of the visitors chair. No Torah

of streaming sacred literature.

no steps to the tenement: the fossil of the super

in his jeans. The pressure of the nurses

hands presses your veins. You improvise happiness

like watching a bad movie. "Let me tell you

about the narrative of synthesis she says to me". How they

hold your buttocks in a ballast

and syphon your blood off. How your strength with the impulse

of dreams rearranges the wrinkles in your gown. Although, in the

inspirit of others, you ingratiate  your power down

(and I am not accurate here) like a greenhouse

where growing is inferred through a plastic improvidence.

But they sit you up, to let you look out over

the flattened landscape where mountains

and men gave their kisses to your power

and yet you are still grateful.

Reviews

[Beccy]

This touched a nerve, a deep one. My nan, (nanny goggles we called her because of her insistence on wearing the most awful pink plastic national health glasses,) had a double mastectomy. I recall I was fifteen at the time and I mostly remember how she stayed strong, (in hindsight probably for us,) made almost light of it.

They gave her these falsies, (terribly crude twenty five years ago,) which she hated; but one time, a couple or so years later when she came on holiday to Majorca with us, she wore them under her swimsuit and when we all went for a swim a bigger than normal wave came and she lost one. I can recall the moment as if it was today, we all roared with laughter and luckily it sort of floated and washed onto the beach. My Nan laughed the loudest.

Thank you for writing and sharing this; you are an illumination in the sometimes dark.

Beccy.

[h d e rushin]

dear Beccy..when you see it up close you know the terror of it. Like a giant blowtorch burning down a skyscraper. But the tow, the pull on the mind is the terrifying lamp that shines brightest. She made me touch her gown where the bandages covered her emptiness like an architech fondling the blueprint of a building he had refused to finish. And although she said it didn't hurt, it hurt me to hear her say it. Thank you my friend for finding this one because it hurt me to write it as it hurt me to have to......dana

[Chase Dylan]

*Welcome to "Pure Rhymes" Thanks for joining, great to have you...!*

A hand on improvised happiness that runs through veins... No convenience from the land of myth and god of sin... Whew... Heady stuff, I had almost forgotten how just... Powerful your writing is... Sweeps through like a forceful gale... Rearranges my impulses into wrinkled wow...

[h d e rushin]

thank you dearest friend Silente..I just wish I had a poem to write like you seem to, each day......dana

[caesarkreshen]

haha. Is it private, are there emdashes? I mite meet you dudes there.

I don't know if I can stand another place where people just tell each other how great they are, though.

O and hi.