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Still a Woman
she sits on the cushioned table
her legs hanging loosely over the side
a paper robe about her shoulders
her arms tucked against her waist
and her chin curled quietly
against her shoulder
her hand strays to touch her breast
and she remembers
the first time he touched her there
with trembling fingers
exploring, teasing, testing boundaries
they had been young
she'd only been nineteen
and she'd arched her back
feeling her pulse swallow itself
against the heat in his palm
before he pushed her shirt
up to her neck
and took her, shivering, into his mouth
she remembers too
the air conditioned maternity room
and the hot august afternoon
where she lay sweating, still panting
as they lay the tiny seven pound bundle
against her chest
the small rooting child moving against her
looking for comfort
and pulling the child closer
the little girl's fingers had clutched
momentarily finding her nipple and tugging
the tingle at the base of her scalp
that pushed to her toes
the pleasure of knowing she was needed
that she was enough
it's strange
that in these two heavy globes
with thin translucent skin stretched over
tiny blue veins that pulse at the surface
and puckering pink buds at the tips
so much of who we are
can be shattered
her fingers splayed gently
she could feel it just under the skin
like hardened gravel beneath stretched silk
they would carve it out
she closed her eyes and imaged the scalpel
the silver cold edge against her skin
scaring the delicate curve of her womanhood
marring the perfect cradle of desire
making her somehow less "whole"
her mother had not lost her hair
but she had been tired
and driving to the treatments
had been more of an ordeal
than the treatments themselves
she wondered if she would die
she pressed her hands flat against her chest
hard
she wondered if she would be a woman
without her breasts
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