Just Like That...

Like remembering where
I was when Kennedy was shot
I'll never forget
August ninth   
five-thirty in the eve
and the groan of windshield wipers
as I delivered 
three blood smeared slides
and my fate 
into the hands
of a pathologist.

And just like that
a small child's terror
stored in a box
in some dark and forgotten attic
lies opened at my feet
along side the silly thoughts-
shaking hands with Elvis,
my unfinished novel
(that I never started).

And just like that
with the slice of a scalpel
it rains again-
jewel colored toxic drops
eight cycles 
twenty-four weeks-
but I don't get sick.
I'm one of the lucky ones.

My scar 
is a straight smooth line
I don't grieve over.
It was that word
the first time I heard it.

   You already know you have....
       Yes, but I was hoping I was wrong.

It is difficult to touch 
I don't caress anymore
I examine
for something 
I hope I never find again
just like that
I became one in eight.

I wear a pink ribbon.
It reminds me 
I am not perfect.

But then
who is?

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