by Mark Bibbins, Editor
The First Time I Saw My Mother Without Her Prosthesis
after Hafizah Geter
Like the smooth face of the cliff
she was just thrown from, the left
side of her chest was flat
and blank, save for two tiny
raised scythes. Not a half-carved
but a woman.
It almost seemed as if her breast
could be drawn back on again,
as if the scalpel was merely
erasing cancer, as if the right one
hanging like a luminous brown
tear wasn’t the lonely twin.
As if this new lightness
didn’t threaten to render her
a widow of his touch,
de-mother her somehow.
Is this a crystal ball moment —
the fanged, wily shadow
never outrun or outwitted?
Do you want to see, baby?
I couldn’t say no — her love
never flinched, neither would I.
Kamilah Aisha Moon is the author of She Has a Name, forthcoming from Four Way Books.
You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at firstname.lastname@example.org.