The Surgeon Apologizes That He Must Take Her Breast
My mother's knuckles always
look like they're ready to burst
forth from the skin, too wide
and bulging for birth,
like a newborn's bare bottom.
My mother, born breach,
now folds her hands in her
lap, the long fingers delicate
in the bent way a tall girl
tries to be delicate, and the surgeon
speaks to her as he would a girl, whose
breasts are blooming in reverse.