Recurrence

Poetry by Jonathan Fletcher

Worried it might come back,
you gently remove your top, gown yourself in green.
Breasts compressed with paddles,
you stand and hold your breath.
A small burst of radiation,
a black-and-white image of the Moon.
The doctor comes back,
checks the lunar-like x-rays for white among the dark.
Nothing to fear in the curve.
Come back in sixth months.
A smile on your face,