Mary D'Alleva

I touch my
breasts, feel for a lump, one
that doesn't belong. Fingers
trail ridges, press
flesh. In the mirror
I see the birthmark
above my left breast. Its dark
patch studded
with freckles, carefully
I count trying to remember
how many there were last time, wondering
if they will eventually
dig this out of me, replace
the birthright
with a scar. I would love
to look at a woman without
breasts, trace the paths
ever outward.

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