It weighed her down, that lump found

right before Easter. She imagined it

a small, cold ball of metal, never warming

to body temperature. “I’m going to place

my fingers and move in a circle, out,” he said.

There were precise movements and then,

stuttered, lingered,

pressed in. She knew but thought

maybe I’m being assaulted. Maybe this is his

fetish. He moved to the left breast, felt

quickly. Sat back. “You have a dense mass

right at 5 o’clock.” There is nothing, she thought

nothing to hear or do but move forward. “I’ll schedule

a mammogram for you, next Friday, okay?

I am sure it is nothing. You have dense muscle,

that is all. Just a check.” She loved him for ignorning

words like lump. Like cancer or tumor.

It was nothing. Nothing but muscle. Not this metal

that would grow and with its coldness eat away

until it was carved out, all the dense muscle of her chest

sliced to bone. Not this weight that dragged her

through the days. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

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