You speak of my breast as a clock,
With it’s cancerous tumor at noon.
Or is it midnight?
I’d rather talk about ten-forty-five,
The spot my cat uses, while I’m asleep,
For a stepping stone on his way to my stomach;
The U shape from three to six to nine,
Where underwires like chain mail
Left dents along my skin;
Five-fifteen, where the heel of my husband’s palm
Rests when I’m on top of him;
The center, pink-brown bullseye
With precise, invisible clock hands spinning,
Where my daughter latched, pulled, and fed milk
From the duct you’ve named noon (midnight?).
100 Words for 100 Days
Day 49: Clock
Oncologists, surgeons, and radiologists have decided to navigate the breast as a clock. This way, they can easily communicate about the location of tumors and other irregularities.
I get it. Boobs are (sort of) round. They have a nipple in the middle, anchoring the invisible clock’s hands. Twelve and six are at the top and bottom, with three and nine at the viewer’s right and left.
But have none of these incredibly intelligent people realized that for a cancer patient, a reference to time calls to mind time passing, and potentially running out, and that’s probably not the best idea?
Day 48: Owl Moon
I can’t believe I’m not scared.
(My brother teases me about all the things I’m afraid of. He laughed when I screamed at the spider in my shoe. He tells tall tales about the creature under my bed, so I can’t sleep. He said I wasn’t brave enough to talk to Ella Whistler.)
It’s dark, and Ella and I are alone together, in the woods. But fear can’t show its face when she walks beside me.
It was her idea to call the owls. We cup our hands around our mouths, whoot-whooting goodnight. They call back, invisible under the moon.
Day 47: Ride
The snow is coming fast, piling on the windshield. I try the ignition again. Nothing. Fuck.
Three knocks make me jump.
“Need a ride?”
It’s Trevor, who got suspended our freshman year for bringing knives to school. He jerks his thumb toward his pickup.
We’ve talked, like, twice in my life. But we’re the only ones left in the lot, and home is too far to walk.
He drives with his hands on ten and two. The pickup rides easily, without sliding the way my stupid Corolla does. He turns up the heat and turns down the music.
“Warm enough?”
Day 46: Goodbye
In our ballet, my character Raymonda parts from her knight before he goes to war. We embrace one last time, then step away from each other, fingers finally sliding apart as he turns to exit the castle courtyard.
We’ve rehearsed a hundred times. Step-step-toe-reach, lean-and-lean-and-touch-and-part.
But today, I couldn’t let him go. On the other side of the gate was treachery, violence, death. I saw bloody swords, broken bodies, dead horses in the mud. He’d die, I was sure of it, and I grabbed his wrist, terrified. His eyes, no longer his own, knew.
“It’s alright,” he whispered, otherworldly, unafraid.
Day 45: Railroad
The train yard painting stands four feet by six, at least.
Listen here. It’s simple.
There’s a gravel railroad bed
a white clapboard shed (green vines creeping)
And three black fuel train cars
All under a pale sky with a corner storm.
We decided we need to have it, though
No wall in our home is big enough.
It will persuade
It will overtake
It will draw us through its signals
There will be a whistle and the slow whine of wheels
And we will be travelers, tic-tac-toeing,
Climbing the ladder ties, riding the spine
Through the wall, away, non-stop.
Day 44: Sing
My friend died, brutally, of cancer.
I’d like to gather my thoughts into an elegant essay on her memory wall, as so many of her friends and family have done. But I don’t want to think about it.
I do, however, sing with her.
See, she had a Disney princess voice that was the centerpiece of several secular and religious singing groups. My relationship with God is like a suffocating wool sweater, itchy and uncomfortable. But singing along to her recordings feels like a pure channel to something beyond all of that.
My friend, my heart still hears you singing.
Day 43: Hillside
Tell your mom not to worry.
I’ll have you back by sundown.
It will be hot, but
I’ve got lemonade in the cooler,
And there’s a shady spot at the edge of the field.
We’ll take the tractor.
Put your hands on the wheel, and I’ll work the pedals.
It’s loud, I know, but I can still hear
The music of your throat,
The pulse in your palm against my hip.
Let me lift you over the mud puddles,
Boost you over the fence.
You can wear my hat, if you want.
I’ll take your handkerchief,
Secretly, from your pocket.
Day 42: Promised 3/?
We’re tucked in the corner of the dugout, the cooler between us. I could kiss him, we’re so close, but the team is on the other side of the fence. And there’s the fact that I promised him I’d never do that again.
Dumbass, I think to myself.
My fingers are about to freeze off from the ice I’ve been holding against his forehead. I pull it away to look at the bruise, now blooming an angry purple and blue.
“Gorgeous,” I say.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, with a half-smile, he traces the trail of water dripping down my arm.
Day 41: Sliding Doors
“Bob,” was a guy I dated in college. We made better friends than significant others. We chatted, partied, danced, tailgated. We fucked, drank, and fought. A lot.
Bob, according to Google, is now living in Los Angeles. He has the job of his dreams directing an entire media division for a large entertainment company (the one with the superheroes). When I learned this, I spent a few minutes considering the what ifs.
And I also considered: what if I’m right where I’m meant to be?
I gaze at my little family asleep on the couch, and feel nothing but relief.
Cynthia Hamill 