chiffon cake

her hands were cold on
on my breasts. in a tall mirror
at the corner of the examining
room i glanced & saw another
angle of us. i thought 
this is another person &
how strange he is.

in the mirror i also saw 
saint Agatha sitting in 
the folding chair by the bed

& when the doctor exited 
she came over to also 
feel my chest.

her own breasts torn off
with hot pincers by 
a flock of unknowably 
angry men

she carried them with
her on a golden plate:
two chiffon cakes;
beautiful & un maimed.

as she touches me she tells
me that she understands,
that making a body feel alive 
is a process

we each eat one of her
breasts, mine tasted like 
strawberry angel food &
she said that hers tasted 
like peach nectar,
but also that they're 
always different,
eat day another confection.

wiping crumbs off on our
thighs we trade stories 
about our chests & about
men taking handfuls of them--

she asks if we can lay down 
together on the examining table
& presses me into it.

the crinkle of wax paper
made me feel like an orb
of hard candy; butterscotch maybe.
her tongue dripping across my neck,
taking handfuls of me like cake.

i whisper to her about 
how sorry i am that i want
to cut off my breasts & that
she had no say how they 
ripped off hers.

she kisses the apology out of me
& leave before the surgeon comes back. 

oh to know another mutilated body.