The first needle is long, but no worse than the dentist’s,
a small prick in an unaccustomed place. Rat-tat!
Rat-tat! The biopsy sounds like the beat of a distant
drum, or, more sharply, a staple-gun, extracting
rather than inserting. Two days later, the breast
still aches and the results are in. Surprising. She
was so young. Is. Is, of course. At forty-three,
on the young side for this, but not outside the bounds.
The last lump we were sure was cancer:
benign uterine fibroids, only fertility-threatening.
Spurring a spiral of panic, months of weeping
about children not yet had. Perhaps responsible
for our finally having children at all. The pointed
impetus, the reminder that we don’t actually have
all the time in the world. The odds are with us,
this time. Only one out of twenty won’t make it.
We have been lucky so far. Rat-tat. Rat-tat.