Like teacups held in trembling hands
the women brim with emotion,
their agitation palpable, about to spill over.
One, recalled for further tests,
duels silently with fears unspoken,
while some chatter compulsively,
reciting the day's catastrophes.
Others, tense with apprehension,
nervously leaf through old
Women's Weeklies, sitting in shapeless
surgical gowns, waiting to hear their names.
Serene at the centre of their turmoil,
one woman's face mirrors composure,
as her fingertips follow a text
in Braille, lingering on each phrase.
I watch her read, a sensuous act:
as images transform her gaze
she pauses to reflect, retrace
impressions gleaned from the textured page.
Her book is a mystery to me,
having no title I can read.
Absorbed in a world screened off from us,
she alone remains tranquil, intact.
At the Breastscreen Clinic
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103030800234
Свидетельство о публикации №103030800234
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