Circle in pencil my paper breast. Then, scissor me out, you blue-gloved fist, swashbuckler wielding scalpels in my grove where there’s one swollen, pitted globe. Nothing rhymes with orange so breast’s got no one to dance with. Left scar’s a hieroglyph, scalpel skin map. X marks the cave where fruit once bloomed, nippled apple filled with milk and honey. Gone nipple like the pink eraser chewed off a pencil. Surgeons say “peau d’orange” is this skin’s condition, breast cancer symptom licking marble eyes with tangerine fire. Pronounce “peau d’orange” as if it’s a perfume, essence of orange blossoms, notes of pink rose buds gone rotten. When I say my breast is the rind of an orange, what I mean is I’d like to rise from this gurney, ignite your silver mastectomy scissors like torches fisted by angry villagers because you’ve made me a monster. But I know I won’t. I know I’ll fold myself back in, lie flat on this gurney like the paper doll I must be till my biceps harvest oranges, pop lines blue as loose-leaf.
Lori Lasseter Hamilton is a 50-year-old breast cancer survivor. She is a member of Sister City Connection, a collective of women poets, spoken word artists, and storytellers in her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama. Lori is a medical records clerk and has been married to Robert Hamilton for 16 years. Some of her poems have appeared in Global Poemic, Parousia, Birmingham Arts Journal, Steel Toe Review, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry.