Mammogram

I cast off the silk bra; a romantic present.
Set free, in the cool compartment, my nipples harden.
Areolas tug subcutaneous petal lobes,
buoyed by lymph and blood, interlaced
with cushioned ducts; tributaries taper into alveoli.

The radiographer, smiles, takes one breast in her blue-gloved hand
inserts between parallel plates of a rotating gantry.
Applies 20kg of compression for five-seconds. 
I think of apples, pears, melons, pumpkins,
the milk of human kindness.

Prolactin that syphoned my blood of sugars, fat and proteins,
oxytocin’s tingling, lightning, let-down to an infant’s cry.
Milk flowing into my babies’ suckling mouths.
Each flattened breast is returned to me, re-harnessed.
Another woman enters. We smile and pass. 

Moons of my grey-white tissue will illuminate a grainy-black background.
Fleshy solar flares examined. At home, untethered, I feel their weight and cross my fingers.