Sonnet No. 11 – Mamogram

In the waiting room before the scan

Twelve women sit together – far apart

Each a story told of heart in hand

In matching pink gowns – holding hand to heart

Everyone carries a growing fear

Of slash, poison and subsequent burn

The level of anxiety’s grown clear

Only results will make the tables turn

Facing the machine, we bear our chest

Bodies torqued to places hard to grasp

It hurts     …    so we hold our breath

Waiting for eternity to pass

Wretched as it is to have breast cancer

With grit, we each turn to face the doctors answer







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