Blanche Rosloff
Cell 2 Soul. 2005 Summer; 1(2):a1
One Out of Eight,
Blanche Rosloff
I'm on alert
fully awake.
Then I remember the call.
"Mom, I've got breast cancer."
The words careen at me
through the phone.
I feel taut, on guard:
my skin pulls across my back,
a chill engulfs me.
Too early in her life she must face
the possibility of dying.
I run fingers through my hair
remembering a headline:
"One in eight women
will contact breast cancer."
I listen, thinking of her birth
forty-seven years ago.
She came at dawn, in time
with the feathered magenta sky.
She grew up shy,
and smart, and full of smiles.
Now I hear plans for a mastectomy,
for lymph node removal, for chemotherapy.
Over my left shoulder
invisible birds shrieks.
The sound like a newborn at midnight
awakes a deep panic
in my soul.