By Dr Ankita Kolhe
Not touch,
but the memory of touch
lingering on my breast
or perhaps its remnants of
pre-pubescent emptiness.
A useless organ,
that could not survive me-
that left inklings
of spheres in my attire,
betraying
the hour to my hourglass,
refusing to contour
my tight fitted dress.
A sutured chest that was once
the archetype of femininity,
now reduced to
misaligned pursed margins of skin;
healing, yet never fully healed
(nor ever will be)
from the memory of chemotherapy.
Herein lies fleshed out skin
that seldom finds
tenderness of home where
men once sought harmonies
of lust and love
alike.