(modeled after Mark Strand's poem The Dirty Hand)

My right breast is dirty
I must cut it off.
No use washing it
in this filthy world.
No point delaying
the inevitable.
It will never come clean.
No soap can rinse
the grime from it.
It has set in for good.
It has been dirty for months

I've tried to caress it
as I do its fraternal twin
but its filth stains
my fingers.
I hide it from others
under cardigans,
coats and vests.
No one's noticed really.
An accidental brush up
against it now and then
reminded me it was
still festering, fossilzing
it's grime beneath my black bra.
And then I realized
my disgust remained,
noticed or not.

How many nights
and mornings I rinsed
under the shower.
Dull, heavy water
infused with every
imaginable soap and bubble;
dreamed it would turn
into a pear-shaped emerald
or a succulent mango
or even, at last
into a simple, supple breast.

The clean curve of a woman
that aches to be cupped,
or kissed or  nuzzled
in a love so intimate
it is felt, like braille,
upon the skin
long before the words
floated from the lips....
Only to have
this dirty breast
like a small overripe fruit
dangle from the vine
of my torso.

And the dirt was acrid.
It was not earth or dust
or even the grime pounded
into a New York City sidewalk.
It was a sad dirt
made of putrid living
and human lack.
It was not black
black is too sure in its darkness
It was sickly.
A sickly off-yellow filth.

It is impossible
to live with, this
disgusting breast that lies there
just inches from my chin
rising and falling, like a smell
I can see.
Quick! Cut it off!
Chop it up and watch
the pieces burn.
In time, it will feed
the universe its vapors;
some goodness will come of it yet.

Later still, with hope,
another shall blossom
in its place, pure and
porcelain as the other.
It will latch onto my body
as does a child,
and for just as long.

03/13/2008

Author's Note: (modeled after Mark Strand's poem: The Dirty Hand)

Posted on 03/13/2008
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