Today we have a snow day in Massachusetts. Just when I thought winter was outta here ... BAM! Eight to 12 inches.
I'll be blogging later today, and with any luck posting a new poem.
I did make it out this morning for my annual mammogram. My dr's office now uses digital technology, so I got my results right away. And let me tell you, my breasts (on screen) look spectacular!
In honor of my mammogram (which was normal), here's a poem I wrote after last year's appointment.
What the Body Knows
The body knows it is part of a whole, its parts believed to be in good working order. It knows how it gets old, years ticking off like pages on a desk calendar, your doctor’s appointment circled ink red. Try not to picture the body sitting alone in the waiting room. The body creaks up and down like a hardwood floor, you tell your doctor this; he says your breast is a snow globe. Inside there’s a snowstorm—my job is to decipher a bear from a moose. He flattens the breast with a low radiation sandwich press. The body wonders if its parts will turn into Brie cheese, if its fingers will fuse and become asparagus stalks. He says it’s possible, but don’t give it a second thought. He says insulate your body with seaweed. He says true understanding of the body will enable it to live long and live well. But the body knows when its leg is being pulled. The body is a container of incidental materials. If it listens carefully, it can hear its own voice making the wrong sound.