by Kathryn Kirkpatrick
She massages the scar,
small circles with an index finger
on my chest’s red line.
What once was private and sexual
is now in the public domain,
though there’s intimacy still
in the vulnerable altered
body, so that hours after
the scar’s been touched, I
sit beside myself in a public
space, diffused, remapping
my flesh, lost breast visible
in my shirt’s different drape,
skin healing over bone, arm
rehinging, a stranger’s face registering
my half-inch hair, what manner
of being? until sunlight finds its way
through the latticed glass panes—
I am here.