Tami Wisniewski wrote this article.

shhhh.
swoosh. swoosh. swoosh.
drip.
drip.
drip.


Racing to the heart, the brain,
the empty space.
All she thinks about is death.
Death. Death.
And whether or not it will spread to the brain, liver, stomach, lung.
so fast.
And I am invaded
drip. drip.
by the unknown
that I am supposed to carry
through her body
to relieve the overgrowth.
drip. drip.
uncomfortable
racing racing – so fast.
Because all she can think about is death. Death.
Not the empty space.
Not how tired I am making her feel,
or sick, or alone, unwanted,
unwoman.
I want to burst through
the folds of skin
the seam,
to breathe
for her
because all she thinks about is death.
Unwoman. . .
Whether or not she will be a survivor
or another
“dedicated to the memory of. . .”
drip. drip.

1 Comment

  1. This poem was part of the “Lila’s Breast” MPH project at UMDNJ. Students were required to write a poem concerning a cancer display consisting of three plaster castings of women who had a breast removed. Students were assigned a specific point of view (the wound; the surgeon, the missing breast; the cancer; the woman as she awakens; the plaster castings; etc.)
    http://boles.com/health/

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