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.

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