the pain in your left breast has taken
on all kinds of significance since you knuckled
under and made the doctor’s appointment.
driving to the bank you think: this is what
will kill me, this here cancer of the left breast.
having lunch you think: i must not tell anyone
how much i am looking forward to writing
urgent poems about mortality.
driving to therapy you think: what will happen
to my facebook profile? driving away from therapy
you think: what will happen to my husband?
by the time you arrive at the waiting room you are
already bored of having cancer of the left breast.
you are ready for the next thing to happen.
the doctor palpates your tissue and it hurts
more than you expect. you have forgotten you did
not also invent the pain in your eagerness to die.
it’s a muscle strain, says your doctor, kindly.
she must think you are reassured by the news.
she must think you are
in this room