He loved stroking her body awake in the giddy dawn.
His fingers wandered her stretch marks,
the freckles she despised, her glorious breasts,
belly, thick sticky hair
he never delved into without trembling –
she might find him intrusive, jig her smooth hips
to spill him back onto the sheets.
When she murmured, turned towards him,
marking his shoulder blades with her fingers,
she always reshaped her body
to allow him in.
The doctors’ fleshy hands are gloved. Through latex
they adjust her skin by inches.
The surgeon’s finger stands in for the blade:
it will remove her, just here.
He keeps his helpless hands still.
This is not his body.
The Naming Of Cancer by Tracey S Rosenberg is Neon‘s first ever chapbook. Find out more and order a copy from the chapbook’s home page.