Now, when I look at women, I wonder
if a breast is missing, if a scar marks
the place like a pirate’s X on a map
where a lump lay buried. I look at their hair
cut close to the skull and I wonder if
the style was chosen for its trendiness
or if it signifies recovery,
first shoots after a long, hard winter;
wildflowers in the woods; dandelions
on the lawn; a birdfeeder full of birds.
Looking at women now, I also see
the ones who didn’t make it, tías, friends,
their faces surfacing in grocery stores
and drive-in windows, moms and bank tellers
whose carts I want to push, whose hands I take
as they tender deposit slips, at a loss
what to say: I’m so glad you’re here to spend
a moment of this autumn day with me—
while they eye me, wary, wondering
what social service agency to call.
Suddenly every girl seems vulnerable:
their female bodies specifically marked
with little black spots like the mortal sins
in my old catechism book, the fear of death
palpable as I turned the page and read
about absolution through the sacrament
of confession. But only the surgeon’s knife
and radiating beam might save these lives.
Even so, I can’t help this helpless love
for every woman’s child, daughter or son.