Be a Maple Tree

The redwood trees outside
the examining room
hum with bees and sun.

The needle gently taps
the healing tissue,
aspirating old blood.

The back valve sticks
and doesn't work;
off with the syringe.

"Be a maple tree," Tony says.
So I drip little deaths
of thin brown fluid.

And picture the tree
in my old front yard,
brimming with sap and life.

Reconstruction

How can I explain
I'll never be ready
in this lifetime
for a plastic breast,
or a butt breast,
or a seawater breast.
The comfort of the scar
defines my new image—
Amazon Warrior.
If Tony suggests
reconstruction again,
I'd have to say,
No thank you, but
how about a tattoo?

Asymmetry

I
David's planting in the garden.
I complain
about a bare patch.
"I left it asymmetrical
in your honor."

II
The unexpected advantage—
I can lie in bed
even closer
to my love.

III
Losing weight, I obsess:
is my prosthesis too big?
Can Tony perform
prosthesis reduction surgery?

Hana Rose

To fool the angel of death,
I'm told, I must change my name.
So I do; but I only change it
a little bit, because
I'm not quite convinced
I need to. Yet.

A Tiger in My Breast

Tiger
There was a tiger in my breast,
gnawing duct and lobe,
banished by surgeon's skill.

There was a tiger in my head,
quick and fierce, ruling thoughts,
tamed by calm acceptance.

Now there's a tiger on my chest,
above the scar where breast once grew—
a tattoo.