Self-portrait with a dozen breasts
I am all of us. Spaced apart. Cushioned chairs a color we called mauve in the nineties. Waiting. Quietest whispers. Water cooler and Keurig machine. Plastic thickening our air’s carcinogenic load. A (pink) Christmas tree with (pink) lights and (pink) glowing orbs its only ornaments, one-day landfill. A row of (pink) bulbs backlights the check-in desk and a column of (pink) curves requests our IDs and insurance information. Our thumbs doomscroll. Our shoulders hunch in anticipation of the contortion to come: cold plates tortilla press dense tissue with twenty pounds of pressure in hot pursuit of the money shot. One of us wipes a tear from below her (pink) right lid. A (pink) nurse calls three of us back. A (pink) sign reminds us our breasts may be undergoing a range of procedures today so breasts that arrived after yours may be called back before yours. Mine are called back in a herd, reminding me of those New York auditions – “cattle calls” – where the directors knew within five seconds whether they wanted you. Here, it’s less rushed. No less degrading. I am a self, we tell ourselves. Early detection saves life, we internalize. This is care, we hope, trailing behind our breasts, headed to their interrogation.
Edith-Nicole Cameron (she/they) writes, teaches, and mothers in Minneapolis. She used to be a lawyer and before that an actor. They feel lucky to have had work published in various journals, including Literary Mama, elsewhere magazine, Brevity Blog, and River Teeth’s Beautiful Things.