Eight times counterclockwise,

sixteen more that morning,

she drew in breath like a delicate thing, held it preciously

behind her breast. (beast

beast beast) she whispers.

 

lump, her head is saying, lump

lump, lump

a lump in her throat, a lump in her

It is like a bomb, a bullet, no longer

visible,

but lurking just within the fresh pink skin,

 

she holds her breath, she counts backwards from 99

bites her tongue, eats her

broth, wishes on every knickknack in the warm window,

 

she plants her beans early that year, coaxes them up from

the dirt, but this year only saline waters

their unfolding tendrils, their life and promise.

 

she waits, bides her time, has a thousand lucky pennies

on her windowsill, it still leaves her empty to feel lucky.

she harvests the beans, leaving them half scattered in the kitchen

 

She she she

drew in breath like a delicate thing