by Marie Cadden
If men
were to lay their testicles
one at a time
on the metal plate
— as breasts are —
for a clamper to pancake,
dignity contorted to facilitate
maximum compression
while the squasher retreats
to the safety of remote control
and an extra squeeze for the x-ray —
if men were to feel the lonely panic,
the dread — that there’s a maniac
behind the screen, the the machine
has lost the run of itself, that the precious
gland will burst and spew a tumour,
of being left two-dimensional forever —
if men were to know the nausea
at the moment of release,
the pitiful cradling
of the poor darling
before the next onslaught
from another angle, while
the trembling twin awaits its turn —
if men had breasts
they’d have found a better way.
