I undress to the waist, armpits free
of deodorant at the form’s request.
Guiding me to the machine, she places
my left breast on a cold, perspex plate.
My nipples do not react.
She hefts and adjusts. The machine compresses,
it's like squeezing my breasts in a fridge door.
I think I'd rather give birth again. Her Crocs
trudge from the booth, while her
grimace exudes impatience.
She readjusts my chest on the plate.
Jesus, let this be over soon. I cling to
the machine, clenching teeth, fists and buttocks,
while killing two birds with a few Kegels. Wish I'd popped
a paracetamol or three, as I ponder what to do for tea.
Lorraine Carey
Lorraine Carey’s work explores recovery and navigating loss through creativity, nature, and ornithology. Her poems feature in Magma, Spelt, Poetry Ireland Review, The Cormorant, One, Ragaire, and Ink Sweat &Tears among others. She works in mental health support.
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