You never think it will happen to you,
What happens every day to other women.
Then as you sit paging a magazine,
Its beauties lying idly in your lap,
Waiting to be routinely waved good-bye
Until next year, the mammogram technician
Says, Sorry, we need to do this again,

And you have already become a statistic,
Citizen of a country where the air,
Water, your estrogen, have just saluted
Their target cells, planted their Judas kiss
Inside the Jerusalem of the breast.
Here on the film what looks like specks of dust
Is calcium deposits.
Go put your clothes on in a shabby booth
Whose curtain reaches halfway to the floor.
Try saying fear. Now feel
Your tongue as it cleaves to the roof of your mouth...

My breast has swallowed something
bulbous, the size of a walnut,
the texture of cotton swabs. How
obvious it is, this thing, this invader
who leaves tracks. This is a lump,
this whoosh of light on a gray veiny surface:
mammogram begging to be noticed,
A terrible lack of certainty floods the room
where years of my breasts shine
above me on a screen. X-rays
like eyes in the darkness
throw me into a world of fear.

a finger crooked:
c'mere
there's a table set for one.

When they came at me with sharp knives
I put perfume under my nose.

When they knocked me out on the
operating table
I dreamed I was flying.

When they asked me embarrassing questions
I remembered the clouds in the sky.

When they were about to drown me
I floated.

When they laid harsh hands on me
I thought of fireworks I had seen with you.

When they told me I was sick and might die
I left them and went away with you

To where I live

When they took off my right breast
I gave it to them.

II
I suddenly want my
mother
and I put on a hat,
a coat and boots,
Because my mother
is in a hot fudge sundae
from Friendly's
with coffee ice cream and pecans
it's almonds
and so that it will
not be exclusively
eating her I ask for
pistachio too.

When the ice cream
is home and gone
I need to hear Van Morrison
covering "Motherless Child."
I am determined to be
an unbroken mother
and say earnestly
into the phone
that someplace between
a rage and faith
I swing.

I am no longer afraid of mirrors where I see the sign of the
amazon, the one who shoots arrows.
There was a fine red line across my chest where a knife
entered, but now
a branch winds about the scar and travels from arm to heart.
Green leaves cover the branch, grapes hang there and a bird
appears.
What grows in me now is vital and does not cause me harm.
I think the bird is singing.
I have relinquished some of the scars.
I have designed my chest with the care given to an illumi-
nated manuscript.
I am no longer ashamed to make love. Love is a battle I
can win.
I have the body of a warrior who does not kill or wound.
On the book of my body, I have permanently inscribed a tree.

We did not ask for this.

We did not set our platters
before Death and beg,
"Please, if you will,
More suffering."
We did not make secret pacts
with our cells in the night,
urging them to darker deeds.
We did not stand
in the middle of the field
and call the lightning down.

Somehow, we were chosen-
As oaks before they are felled,
As fruit, crushed into wine.

And so it is.

So let us choose
To unearth what was once lost to us,
display it, sparkling, on our persons.
To unlock, unbar those doors
that shield us from one another.
To welcome ourselves home again-
grow warm before the fire,
laugh at the lightning,
savor the wine.

As
you
recall,
she is
a 45 year old
perimenopausal
white female
who noted a
palpable density
in her right breast
several weeks ago.
Left breast was
mammographically
unremarkable.
There is no
family history
of breast
or ovarian
neoplasia.
She is single
and has no children.
Appears her stated age.
She is alert and comfortable,
in no apparent distress.
Vital signs are stable.
Thank you
for allowing me
to participate
in the care of
this
most
delightful
patient.

My stomach clenches
at the sight of her pursed lips,
the lines bracketing
a mouth drooping low.
Her whispery voice
with its false note of joy
rasps the bones in my ears
like dull saws scraping
wet wood. She steals time-
my time, your time-
spins a thread a spider would envy.
I fear the part I abhor
is the thing I recognize,
spend my energy
stilling my tongue.

It's the night before your mastectomies.

I'm sitting on the end of the bed.
(We got the faded-orange-curtain-40-watt-lightbulb-
green-chenille-bedspread room.)

From the shower,
you suddenly loom over me,
smelling of peppermint soap and wet leaves
around the lake in the fall.

Holding a breast in each hand,
as if restraining the flight of doves,
you press them to my face and erupt into tears.

I touch my lips to one, then the other,
falter at the scent of my self -
the joyful signature of my fingers and hands.

I pull your body hard to mine,
as if to hurt will help to heal.

The room fades in and out like a bad radio.

The baseboard heater tick tick ticks.

Outside, the helicopter walloping on the roof
lowers a burned child,
stars explode across the night,
volcanoes rise from the ocean floor,
wobble the earth on its axis.

Except for our breathing,
we dare not move.

A courtesy acknowledgment to:
F. Richard Thomas, Death at Camp Palooka, Michigan State University Press, 2000

I remember water
touching my body differently
as, still whole, I lay in that last hot bath.

Now I discover a freckle
beneath where my breast once was
and feel a newness come over me.

I ask god to tell me he loves me
and he answers
through the taste of a sweet, summer peach.

Water pours over a scarred, curveless mass, and I am
cleansed.

I stood in front of the mirror bare-chested,
a flat slate, open field, horizonless
like the round earth isn't really
so round anymore.
The slim trails of stitches, crooked line
that climbs a little, dives a little
across each side. The branding
in my clavicle where chemo port went in,
chemo port came out, the almost
invisible pink line in the left armpit
in lieu of lymph nodes there, and
the ruddy thicker line down my stomach
to pubic bone, dividing belly into two halves --
all the parts exposed, slashed expertly open,
all these parts surrendering their goods
to the surgeon's hands, sealing themselves
back up like the earth cut open, excavated,
relandscaped to accommodate new clearings,
the mining for danger and risk,
the yearning for long life.
I stood in front of this mirror
while the moon hung soft and round
in the corner of the bathroom window,
while the kids argued in the other room
over the clashing tones of television,
while the cat slept on my bed just beyond,
while the bathwater roared into its container
soon ready to part and let me in,
and I knew it was still the same place --
the same grasslands, butterfly milkweed,
the same storms parading over --
of my body.
All the skin complete,
all the blood complete,
all the muscle complete,
all the tears, all the breathing
ongoing toward this completeness,
and all of it, beyond understanding, good.

A winter's sun climbs
One hundred temple steps
I follow behind.

After chemo hour
My son buys nausea meds
And one fragrant rose.

Cloudbanks break open
Waves of yellow daffodils
My body dances toward light.

Underneath the scars
Wildflowers blossoming
Random happiness

Three stalks of bamboo
One candle burning softly
Slow deep breath of now.

Iridescent dawn
Poplar trees brushing skyline
My arms embrace life

Dracula comes through my window, hungry as usual, Fine, I
say, hungry too, hungry for the kiss, the bite, everlasting life.
He shows up in his rented suit and fine white shirt. He is
wearing his company manners. "Would you be so kind," he
says. "Yes." And I picture his wings protecting me in the dark
skies. Dracula drinks my blood and vomits six hours later. In
three weeks he loses all his hair.

I am in chemotherapy for metastasized breast cancer.

When I go into remission

I will wear cowgirl boots with tooled flowers;
jeans that fit, but not too tight,
and a leather jacket with a six-inch fringe.

I will have a Western shirt embroidered
with silver beads and brightly-colored threads.

I will sing Emmy Lou Harris songs
and laugh and cry at the keyboard.

I will go to rodeos and horse shows,
travel to the desert
and ride an appaloosa among the saguaros.

I will hear the rhythm of the horse's hooves on the trail,
and in the barn smell the hay.

I will lie by the side of a slow-summer river
and let the horse drink as the water purrs by.

I will feel the wind in my hair
and take in the heat of the valley on my face.

I will live in sunshine and sleep below enormous night skies.

I will drink milk and margaritas, sleep until dawn,
and rise with the light.

Hope is the thing with petals
smiling towards the sun.
A yellow beam of light
streaming across a dark room.
Hope is a rose with no petals
bursting into full bloom.

Hope is what we wish for;
a paintbrush poised over pristine paper,
rainbow palette in hand.
Hope is a rope we cling to
when the ground gives way
beneath our feet.

Hope is waking up to see
morning's hazy first light;
the new dawn unfolding.
Hope is joy and dreams;
what just could be;
shafts of sun peeking through a cloudy day.

Hope is taking baby steps
to reach the summit,
knowing you can survive
anything and everything.
Hope is embracing life,
believing in the wonder
when there's nothing left.

Hope is what we are grateful for:
a caring voice on the phone,
a letter from a friend,
a family to love,
a walk hand in hand with your lover.

Hope is a tiny shard of light
escaping a crack beneath the door;
a willingness to cross a threshold to worlds unknown,
open to endless possibilities.

Our thanks and appreciation to our Hope is... poets who gave us permission to use their names and credit their contribution to this collaborative writing project:

• Linda G. Camarda
• Me'Shech Parker
• Janet
• Ramona Davis
• Nessa
• Mainini Liebenberg
• Kathy Austin
• Lynda Urban
• Anamika Basu
• Dan Zeorlin
• Sherry Reiter
• Barbara Poppalardo
• Kelly King
• Kathy King
• Shannon Kresge
• Kathy Seaman
• Denise Burnett
• Lydia Sloan Gibson
• Danielle Thierry

Once all the Hope is... submissions were received, Alysa Cummings shared them with her breast cancer survivors poetry therapy group, Pink Ribbon Poetry, who reviewed all of them and worked feverishly as a team to create the finished poem you see here.

be given
a
diagnosis
of cancer

have your
nodes
removed

learn that
you will
never
know
how long
you
may
live

notice
how the
light
lingers
in trees,
how
hawks
circle,
how
the
red
maple
turns
green
at
its
tips,
how
a
white
moth
presses
its
wings
together,
then
apart,
how
the
Buddha
in
the
garden
loses
his
paint
yet
continues
to gaze
at the world.

Trash your cigarettes. Shun restaurants and bars
that traffic in secondhand smoke. Eat organic
and low on the food chain. Steam vegetables;
don't grill meat. Just say "no" to marijuana, Jack
Daniels and cocaine. Stay home: do not rent cars
at Miami's airport, or ride the New York subways,
or dig potshards in the Negev after massacres
in Hebron. Don't drive vans older than you are
to places you've never been. Always buckle your
seat belt. Have someone else strip the asbestos
from your furnace and heating pipes. Test for radon
in the basement, lead in the drinking water, cracks
in the microwave shield. Avoid electric blankets.
Use condoms, or don't have sex. Walk to work.
Remember your sunblock. Don't go jogging after dark.
Keep off the neighbors' grass after they've sprayed
the yard. Wear a helmet when you bike. Take
a buddy to the lake. Don't lie about your weight
to the man who adjusts your skis. Lower stress
with yoga; divorce your husband if you must. Cross
your fingers, say "Star Bright" to Venus, avoid
black cats, spit three times over your shoulder
on your thirteenth annual visit to the oncologist.

I'm in
and out of
there, I swear,
in the blink of an
eye. Moving at warp
speed, clothes peeled to
the waist in seconds flat.
Motion lines blur, tremble
on either side of me. I fight
off demons that recur, mute
their evil chatter (we found it
once, we'll find it again). Steal
a quick glance down at my
watch. It's official: I'm in
and out and on my way,
I'd say in maybe half
the time it takes
everybody else.

Here plants-gold and dry-rustle up
green at soil's edge.
Music roils in the room
where I wait, my chest holding even
at the scar's edge.

Whatever chances I took
paid off and now I have only
the rest of my life to consider
Once it was a globe, an ocean
to cross, at least a desert-
now a rivulet, or a blowhole.

I remember it was like a story,
Rampal said on the radio.
He told you the Beethoven concerto.
I am telling you cancer.

I am telling you like moisture
at soil's edge after winter, or
the bulb of the amaryllis you brought
raising stem after stem from cork dirt,
one hybrid flower after another unfurling
for hours, each copper petal opening its throat so
slowly, each shudder of tone-mahogany, coral, blood-
an ache, orgasm, agony, life.

for B.G.

She stands on a low stool
wearing blue surgical booties
and a dazed expression,
limp cotton gown at her feet.
Plastic men with purple magic markers
(permanent pointy tip)
circle her, chatter in matching mint green scrubs,
slowly map the scalpel's winding path
with purple spots and sketchy lines.
They connect dots, front and back,
mark pale skin sorely branded,
burned and scarred.
She senses their plot and plan
from a far off distant place.
Her hands first flutter nervously at her sides
then clutch and clench,
open closed, open closed
pushing shame and anger
in hot surges, up to stain her cheeks flaming red.
Naked and fierce, no pockets hide her fists.
She poses on her pedestal,
spins around slow,
no twinge of fear, no prayer of hope,
mute - a block of damaged marble
impatient for an artist's sharp blade
to set her fighting spirit free.

I could live
the rest of my life
without it.

But if cancer recurs
can I count on
the recurrence of
hope and courage too?

I've been sliced and diced
and carved up nice,
put back together
with plastic and wire.
I sashay forth, head high,
chest out,
take on the world
I meet.
So, buddy, when the lights are low,
the mood's right, we're feeling tight,
I'll strip down to the skin
I live in.
You'd better get ready.
Brace your knees, stir that juice.
'Cause I'm me,
one hell of a woman,
and those knives
didn't change me at all.

She is not herself anymore,
hasn't been since she stood before the mirror
in her own bathroom, holding
her own toothbrush, an ordinary
gesture, two days
later. She was lucky
to be alive, they all said, lucky
to lose something she didn't need,
not an essential foot
or a necessary hand.
They told her to rest.
They took her to dinner and talked
of the new kittens, the new boss
pestering like a small boy,
the small woman blessing them
from the corner booth.
The women across the table
were intact, might have lost a job
or a tennis match, maybe even
have lost touch with a son
or a good friend.
When she touched what was lost,
splayed her fingers across her chest
like a child cheating a peek
in a nightmare flick,
she heard the word "best".
"This is best", they said.
"This is my breast," she tells the woman
in the glass, her hands cupped
like small graves
over the pale landscape, the shadow
of full moons. She feels the lips
of her first baby sucking
at air, sees him nested now in the crook
of his mother's life,
of this other woman's arm.

Please do not trivialize
My suffering.

You who are healthy
You whose mortality is as yet
Only dimly perceived-
Please do not say
"You will be just fine."

I may well be-someday-
But I do not know...
You do not know...

When breast cancer had me
I only could write about fear:
the smiling impervious doctors,
the devices they used
that squeezed and pierced and sliced,
drew blood, singed and severed,
then the taut and vacant side,
or the intricate ache that would not go away
and still fingers my heart.

Some people ask where
are the poems of gratitude
extolling the new life seized
the now resplendent mundane,
my adoration of the breast
left alone.
I wonder why
these poems did not
soar out of me
still don't.

It is almost a year
since the mammogram,
the terrible words
that lodged deep
inside my ear and breast.
A journal on healing
asked for a poem and none
came forward saying
send me, let me
tell them what healing is.

Post-shock, pre-zest.
Will I ever have
A Bernie Siegel moment?
Has trauma bared
a deeper fault line coupled to
these grinding plates
of sighs?

Heaving one, I hear
My therapist tell me
this is what healing is:
just this.

No huge revelation.
Instead there are bits,
semi-precious, tumbled smooth
and showing up
under eye and foot
Where they are not expected:
sudden birds in swept skies,
flowers in vertical rocks,
sere cliffs and half domes,
yellow cottonwoods big as hope;
and water:
in falls,
springs,
stony basins,
rivers of silvery muscle;
sun melting frost in my hair,
the moon a white pearl button and stars
in her velvety pocket;
a van named Blanche
that drove me all through Utah,
strangers that entered
endearment, and yes, now
that I am home, my friends
showing me my vacant side
is nothing less
than here.

No.
I don't want to hear about your uncle
and how he lived three years
after being diagnosed.
And I don't want to hear
how many times your cousin threw up
when she had chemo.
Nor how your neighbor's baby
had twelve toes
maybe from radiation.

And I don't want your sounds of pity
simpering about my situation.
Pity separates us and
with one out of three getting cancer now,
pity won't keep you safe.

I have suddenly crossed the boundary line
of the risky circle called cancer.
It has made me public property, like being largely pregnant.
People invade - an assault of connections -
for reasons fair and foul.
Strangers on elevators. Acquaintances.
The medical cadre, too.
Either way,
I am covered with fingerprints, with labels.

Yes.
I will take hugs, help,
plus anger, strength, and love.
But the only person I want to hear about
is your Grandma Ruth,
who was diagnosed at fifty
and died at ninety,
skydiving.

Otherwise,
hold your tongue.

Could I love the starlit sky
if I did not also love the sun
the reflection of the meadow in a horse's eye
the curve of my nose
even the sound of my own voice
though I have spoken with the spite of Esau
and wept because I had asked for too much?

How can I not love and thank
the Host of this entire universe?
I can't imagine not begging to stay
no matter when it's my time,
but when I must,
I want to leave
blowing kisses off my fingertips

and using my last breath to say
I have loved it all.