Right arm raised,
languid wrist drooped in a Bob Fosse pose
belies my inner tension

I lean in close.
Rough, garden stained fingers probe
is that a lump or a new lesion?

The mirror allows no illusions
hands slide over matron's belly, shiny scars
maps of babies swelling

Next I lift an empty, sagging breast
translucent globe
a blue veined atlas.

I shed my fatalistic coat of armor,
embrace the sweet reprieve --
the monthly ritual complete.

I am currently in remission from a stage 3 melanoma. Four years ago I found a lesion which I showed my doctor who told me it was a wart. After a few months of treating it with wart remover, I insisted he look at it again. This time he sent me to a surgeon for excision when I found out it was over 6 mm deep and considered quite deadly. I was admitted to an experimental vaccine program, took Interferon three shots a week for a year, and received vaccine injections every two weeks. I just celebrated my fourth cancer free year.

Although I am a writer, my genre is usually prose memoir, but the urge to express and share the experience of cancer seemed to find outlet in poetry. No matter how long my remission, it seems the monthly chore will always result in a bit of fear and a reminder of my vulnerability.