Mammogram Blues
by Constance Alexander

Those breasts could kill, cutie –
they’ll gut you, girlie girl.

Come into my office
and do the mermaid strip.
Assume the madonna position.

First, there’s a test.

The nurse produces a rubber torso
with lesioned breasts
from the attache case on the counter.

It could be you, honey lamb.

See if you can find the bumps
in the booby cushion.
Press hard. Harder.

Remember the fairy tale?
A princess could find those poison peas.
A real princess.

Even a boob could figure this.
The rubber maid is terminal.
So bad they didn’t even operate.
They just stuff her back in the book bag.
She’s only tits, toots.

But she has the nipples of a nymph.

Next, we xerox your knockers.
Set those babies down.
Right there on the sweet metal shelf.
Where else?
Colder than a witch’s you-know-what.

This vise won’t hurt.
We’ll smash your bingo-bongos,
snap a snazzy shot that’ll put
your passport to shame.

A little radiation won’t kill you,
but I’ll just step outside.

The film comes last.
"Lois Lane in Cancerland."
By day a simple re-write girl,
at night a breast investigator.

She marks her calendar,
charts her cysts,
eschews coffee and chocolate.
Cancels dates to stay home
and examine herself.

In the shower,
in the tub,
on the bed.
Lying down,
sitting up.
With soap
and without.
Before she pincurls her hair.
And after.

Such a good girl
with her cast-iron camisole.

Little does she know
Clark Kent, he of the Cat-Scan eyes,
could tell her what she’s dying to find out.