Wendy Mannis Scher
SOMETHING I WANT TO SHOW YOU
my chest is numb, bound where breasts once lived, under armpits, over ribs. Numb as if surgery’s nerve block never wore off. I wear cotton, dream burlap, spiders, textured pelts. You promised you wouldn’t mind the loss, misshapen breastlessness, the photos doctors showed us. Skin-to-skin, not for 2 years. Are you numb? Are we numb together? Do you itch? Scars itch, crave fingers, nails across pale ripples. Gum-rubbery, I stretch, circle arms, a lightning rod, an old TV antenna searching for signal. Sometimes pain/flesh sears split-second clarity. At night, I belly-sleep, chest pressed against the mattress, a drought-flattened aster, late summer tinder. I ache. I want. I’m numb. I’m not; prick me—here . . . here . . . here.