I do not want to be
a breast poet.
I want my breasts to be sound and sub rosa,
taken for granted, not written about
and certainly not by me. My hands shake.
Someone sings about leaves in the wind.
My mother asks how I can do this
and still dance.
Yellow fluid leaves a stain
a nurse says will come out in the wash.
Another one stands behind me, on the left, watching,
she would like to put a hand on my head.
The spotlights dim, darkening
From the book Where Did You Meet the Cancer?
Publisher: Carmel, Jerusalem, 2006
Translation: Lisa Katz