Out my bedroom window
tires shush over six wet
lanes like arhythmic waves.

My damp skin revels in a
cool spot on the sheet;
I cast off the blanket too
heavy for tonight.

Over the constant mechanical
hum of the air conditioner, old
conversations play like mix tapes-
my own voice as foreign as the others-
about the cells that derailed
our lives, minuscule but
organized, early but
threatening, necessarily removed by
traumatic force.

I confirm by touch, the
swaths of skin that still do not
summon heat from blood flow, that
feel only pressure, not sensation,
over and around these
lumps that signify femininity and
are otherwise devoid of
purpose and pleasure.