mammogram :: jackie fox

Last spring, as breasts were pressed
like keepsake flowers,
the ominous image emerged, nearly obscured
by swirling clouds of dense tissue.
A tiny constellation of brilliant specks,
traitorous cells made manifest as light.

This spring, the bright white globe
of augmentation curves like a moon,
clouds reduced to cirrus overhead.
Its twin cold and dark, fading scars tracing
the skin-sheathed orb unobserved.
No atmosphere left to study; no need of a lens.

mri :: jackie fox

It thuds and clanks
like tennis shoes
in a dryer, only
I am the shoe,
sour, damp and
wedged into
the narrow
metal tube,
heart clanging.