{"id":419,"date":"2017-08-23T12:18:42","date_gmt":"2017-08-23T12:18:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/?page_id=419"},"modified":"2017-09-07T14:30:34","modified_gmt":"2017-09-07T14:30:34","slug":"self-portrait-without-breasts","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/body\/breastless-encounters-with-risk-reducing-surgery-by-clare-best\/self-portrait-without-breasts\/","title":{"rendered":"Self-portrait without Breasts (Poems by Clare Best, 2007-2011)"},"content":{"rendered":"

for Pippa<\/em><\/p>\n

and for all the others<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Self-examination <\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Get to know your breasts. Near the armpit<\/p>\n

you may find pebbles, bladderwrack, pearls.<\/p>\n

This is normal. Don\u2019t be alarmed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The lower part of your breast<\/p>\n

could be gravel. There might be silt,<\/p>\n

quicksand, shifting dunes under the nipple.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Check for flotsam at low tide. Search<\/p>\n

for a rock in shingle, a limpet on the sandy beach.<\/p>\n

Seek help if you discover these.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Vital statistics<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

(i) The consultant puts it like this<\/p>\n

Most breast cancers are sporadic.<\/em><\/p>\n

Only five percent<\/em><\/p>\n

genetic\u2013\u2013a defective gene gives the woman<\/em><\/p>\n

an inherited predisposition. So when<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

two or more close relatives<\/em><\/p>\n

develop the disease, we must<\/em><\/p>\n

be vigilant. If one parent has a bad gene<\/em><\/p>\n

there\u2019s a fifty-fifty chance you have it.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

If you do (we can test<\/em><\/p>\n

for two genes\u2013\u2013there are others<\/em><\/p>\n

not yet found) the risk of cancer\u2019s<\/em><\/p>\n

eighty-five percent. How does that sound?<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

(ii) Eighty-five percent<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of computers in China are infected with viruses<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of lost umbrellas are left on long-distance buses<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of embryos transferred during IVF fail to be born<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of men over sixty spend Sunday mowing the lawn<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of sunscreens don\u2019t deliver their marketing claims<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of people want children in another part of the plane<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of western women wear the wrong bra size<\/p>\n

Eighty-five percent of English tomorrows have weather just like today\u2019s<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The surgeon\u2019s album<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He turns the pages for me:<\/p>\n

full and partial reconstruction, implants,<\/p>\n

muscle flaps from back and stomach. Creations<\/p>\n

to match and balance. But how would I look<\/em><\/p>\n

flat? No extras. Straightforward scars.<\/em><\/p>\n

He frowns at a lop-sided photo.<\/p>\n

The absence doubled<\/em>? I\u2019ve not done that before.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Twelve months on, he wants<\/p>\n

my picture, conforming to house style:<\/p>\n

no head, arms at forty-five degrees to clavicle.<\/p>\n

I stand anonymous against a stripped pine door,<\/p>\n

knots and fissures dark behind my skin\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

a knife-thrower\u2019s object, still<\/p>\n

until the last blade hangs from the wood.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Two weeks before surgery<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Cast me and I will become what I must be<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We\u2019ve oiled my shoulders, collarbone,<\/p>\n

breasts\u2013\u2013olive-scented, shiny<\/p>\n

as greased rubberwood, I\u2019m primed for casting.<\/p>\n

You soak chalky bandages, wrap me<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in slapstick layers of white\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

a sacrament to tender body and life.<\/p>\n

Working fast before the plaster sets<\/p>\n

we smooth wet dressings onto slippery skin\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

keep my contours, take my shape;<\/p>\n

at every fold and ruck we stop, look closer<\/p>\n

to remember. I lie death-still, encased,<\/p>\n

breath slow-drawn, not to crack my shell:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

an end and a beginning. Beneath the carapace<\/p>\n

I hum a lullaby\u2013\u2013you lift the curves away,<\/p>\n

cast off my breastplate,<\/p>\n

air moving like shadow over sentenced flesh.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Countdown<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Three turns in the corridor<\/p>\n

to the anaesthetic room, one last walk<\/p>\n

with breasts, the weight of them<\/p>\n

familiar as my own name and address.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A young man in a white coat small-talks<\/p>\n

London, fixes a cannula into the wrist<\/p>\n

where my watch has been. My lips<\/p>\n

keep moving\u2013\u2013explain we left<\/p>\n

some years ago, not the stress,<\/p>\n

more the desire to raise our child<\/p>\n

on chalk hills, near the sea.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

His eyes clear as a newborn\u2019s<\/p>\n

close to my face, he holds my hand\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

a moment of love, I will call it that.<\/p>\n

I lend him this life, veins freezing<\/p>\n

from the forearm up.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Technical steps<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Patient supine, arms right-angled to torso,<\/p>\n

breasts and axillas exposed<\/p>\n

(no Paralyzing Agent to be used in anaesthetic)<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the embryo\u2019s mammary ridge,<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 a thickened strip of ectoderm <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 at six weeks\u2019 gestation, develops and extends<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Prepare chest with antiseptic. Check:<\/p>\n

Clamps, Vascular Hemoclips,<\/p>\n

Blake Drains, Skin Stapler, Marking Pen<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 a segment of this ridge<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 persists in the thoracic area and proliferates,<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 budding multiple lactiferous ducts<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Draw island to include Nipple-Areola,<\/p>\n

make incision, retract skin flaps,<\/p>\n

dissect breast from Pectoralis Major muscle<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 a small pit in the epidermis<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 ultimately becomes<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the nipple<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Recovery room<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Before you surface, they select<\/p>\n

a pair of eyes from a tall jar by the door.<\/p>\n

Checking for colour, they push them into place.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The shade they paint your face, Warm White<\/em>,<\/p>\n

matches the walls, it will stay bright<\/p>\n

for days. Next they give you a nose<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

that detects only latex, aftershave,<\/p>\n

surgical scrub. The younger nurse<\/p>\n

attaches ears, tunes them in, adjusting<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the volume while she speaks a name;<\/p>\n

it sounds alien, metallic, definitely not yours.<\/p>\n

Teeth and tongue are slipped in quick<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

so you can articulate: Is it tomorrow?<\/em><\/p>\n

My lips are dry. How do I know if I\u2019m dead?<\/em><\/p>\n

Blood pressure\u2019s stable now, a top-up<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of analgesic and you\u2019re set for the ward.<\/p>\n

But first they smuggle into your skull<\/p>\n

random clips from someone else\u2019s memory\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you\u2019ll discover them later, at the edge of sleep.<\/p>\n

As they wheel you out, you request<\/p>\n

a glass of water, some extra air.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I think of love<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and suddenly as though I\u2019ve heard some new word<\/p>\n

in a half-known tongue, comes<\/p>\n

this sense of you, and in the opiate fog a growth of light<\/p>\n

and you there just beyond my reach<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to make me stretch, fill my lungs<\/p>\n

and feel the cuts,<\/p>\n

a tightening band of steel around my ribs\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

and all the years and days we\u2019ve been together count<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

as much as every stitch that binds me skin to skin,<\/p>\n

and in the places nipples were<\/p>\n

I feel a charge of blood<\/p>\n

and ghosts of kisses visit me as pain.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Prey<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

River boats carve up and down,<\/p>\n

commuters trail to work in lines<\/p>\n

over London Bridge.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

An eagle has bedded its claws<\/p>\n

in my chest. I hang by the city wall,<\/p>\n

watching, waiting to heal.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

On hospital TV <\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nigella wears burgundy velvet, a party dress<\/p>\n

with plunging neckline, her black<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

black hair falls in ribbons over milky shoulders<\/p>\n

down to full G cups. She demonstrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the ease and desirability of flaking crab<\/p>\n

with dill and fennel, coating little cakes<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in egg and breadcrumbs, deep-frying plenty<\/p>\n

to feed ravenous guests. She\u2019s so perfectly<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

convincing. I\u2019m planning my own celebration\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

champagne and sleep, the relief of a flat chest.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Breast care nurse<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She whistles in\u2013\u2013flat shoes, primary colours,<\/p>\n

wide smile:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Remember to take some softies when you leave\u2013\u2013<\/em><\/p>\n

use them as soon as your wounds are closed,<\/em><\/p>\n

wear them with a comfy bra, baggy top,<\/em><\/p>\n

nobody\u2019ll guess. Then call and make a date<\/em><\/p>\n

for silicone ones, any size you fancy, they\u2019ll look good<\/em><\/p>\n

under a T-shirt or vest. Try different brands<\/em><\/p>\n

till you find what suits\u2013\u2013so many kinds,<\/em><\/p>\n

even stick-ons for nights. <\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I want to tell her<\/p>\n

I am my own woman-warrior,<\/p>\n

heart just under the surface. I let go of pretence<\/p>\n

weeks before the surgeon drew<\/p>\n

his blue arrows on my chest.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Following the others <\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This body\u2019s bruised and torn<\/p>\n

with frostbitten openings<\/p>\n

where black winds howl.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Others crossed this frozen waste,<\/p>\n

edging forward, finding their way<\/p>\n

as I find mine now.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The new geometry<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m laid out, my head padded<\/p>\n

in the angle of the back seat,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the belt above ruling its hypotenuse<\/p>\n

across my space, placing me<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in the sudden angularity of the world.<\/p>\n

This line of sight\u2019s ideal<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to study the oval heads of cyclists,<\/p>\n

oblong posters pasted on oblong buses,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

faces squared in fogged-up windows.<\/p>\n

Now we accelerate, switch lanes,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I see plane trees in parallel rows,<\/p>\n

parabolas of lights. A trapezium of sky.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Over the South Circular, a helicopter<\/p>\n

poised like a rotating star.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Removing sutures in the bath<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Lap of water, deep<\/p>\n

water, stitched<\/p>\n

and rippled skin. Look<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

through fluid glass<\/p>\n

to winter sky\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

jet trails,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

each quick cut<\/p>\n

straight and white\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

slow, the vapour<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

spreads, deforms,<\/p>\n

reshapes. Impossible<\/p>\n

to think<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

tomorrow\u2019s<\/p>\n

clear<\/p>\n

and blue.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Self-portrait without breasts<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tangled hair, charcoal-socket eyes,<\/p>\n

mouth slack after one more long night<\/p>\n

restless on my back. This body\u2019s fenscape,<\/p>\n

manscaped, hills removed\u2013\u2013the meaty joins<\/p>\n

still livid, tight shut mouths<\/p>\n

where distant territories were stitched<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in touch. Blood seeps in deltas over ribs,<\/p>\n

yellow and purple track to the waist.<\/p>\n

You\u2019re even more beautiful now,<\/em> you say<\/p>\n

and I believe, for though I never was, I am<\/p>\n

explorer, seeker\u2013\u2013I\u2019ve travelled<\/p>\n

and I have an ear for truth.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Memento<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When you cast me, I held my breath<\/p>\n

as the plaster set. You kept your focus,<\/p>\n

capturing the contours of my breasts.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Remember that awkward fold by the clavicle,<\/p>\n

air trapped between layers, remember<\/p>\n

my fear\u2013\u2013that flesh could not be cast<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to look like flesh. But now, when I touch<\/p>\n

the rough white woven skin, I want to quit<\/p>\n

my body, let the twin chalk rind<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

contain my breath, while I recall a lover\u2019s kiss,<\/p>\n

the heat of milk-tight flesh, my newborn<\/p>\n

trying to focus as I held him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

How will I remember this?<\/p>\n

Numb flesh stapled over ribs,<\/p>\n

my breath snagged within.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The nipple place<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I mourn this most of all\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

the grief acute and physical.<\/p>\n

Sensation prickles in the numb<\/p>\n

scar, tells me of the place<\/p>\n

my left breast was, a phantom<\/p>\n

where the nipple lies in space<\/p>\n

somewhere in front of me,<\/p>\n

gathering nerve and duct,<\/p>\n

concentrating me<\/p>\n

in skin\u2013\u2013excite, contract.<\/p>\n

A meeting place, the place I met<\/p>\n

those few, those so few loves<\/p>\n

that time would prove<\/p>\n

could turn me inside out.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Flat lands<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Expanse of skin stretched over ribs:<\/p>\n

this is the new terrain we\u2019ll trace on paper\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a detailed plan with code and key.<\/p>\n

Our way to measure and record<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

how much feeling has been lost, how much<\/p>\n

might be retrieved.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Let\u2019s cross-hatch regions of polar snow\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

uninhabited, no sensation.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In places, the surface won\u2019t tell the truth:<\/p>\n

mud on top of frozen soil and rock.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We map this permafrost with stars<\/p>\n

held in parentheses.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Some areas are fragile: thin ice<\/p>\n

on a lake\u2013\u2013a leaf or feather settling<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

could start the crack, the thaw. We know<\/p>\n

to plot these zones with question marks.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

black and white <\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

if it\u2019s light when I wake<\/p>\n

and if I look left I see<\/p>\n

this three-month me<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

wrists against chest<\/p>\n

fingers tip to tip<\/p>\n

palms floating over ribs<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

she stares from the frame<\/p>\n

sternum lifting and sinking<\/p>\n

hands filling with breath<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Clear-out<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

seamless sports tops, sweated, grey as gum<\/p>\n

lilac camiknickers, Paris \u201992, unworn<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

shocking pink bustier (supplementary pads)<\/p>\n

disposable paper pants for handbags<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Jockeys for Her<\/em>, folded, half-priced<\/p>\n

camisoles\u2013\u2013laced, flowered, satinised<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

coloured thongs curled like exotic snakes<\/p>\n

precious silks in cream and caviar black<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

bra-and-pantie sets from magazines<\/p>\n

sequinned, crotchless, stuff of dreams<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

long-desired C cups with double Lycra straps<\/p>\n

zips, poppers, neat breast-feeding flaps<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

underwired wonderbras to lift morale<\/p>\n

empty drawer\u2013\u2013no underwear at all<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Amazons<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We are warriors, women marked by a lack of breast\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

bows crafted from elm, sinew and bone,<\/p>\n

axes double-edged.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We live on our wits, we live on the move.<\/p>\n

Tomorrow at dawn we ride\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

our arrows will find their kill. But tonight<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

we hush our restless mares,<\/p>\n

lie together on leopard skin, kiss each other\u2019s scars,<\/p>\n

stare into the fire where shadows dance.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Representation<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The window-dresser strips<\/p>\n

nine skinny girls, slow-dancing each.<\/p>\n

Look, it\u2019s the turn of the tall brunette\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

pert breasts, absurdly elongated legs,<\/p>\n

good for tango and two-step,<\/p>\n

then she\u2019s propped with the rest.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the morning, the dresser will wrestle<\/p>\n

her troupe into this season\u2019s layers,<\/p>\n

help them strike the right pose. But now<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

she flips the Closed <\/em>sign, sets out for home.<\/p>\n

I slip in at the back, lower the blind,<\/p>\n

twist off the brunette\u2019s top half.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The torso I give her is Topman\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

discrete pecs and six-pack.<\/p>\n

Shoulders just broad enough.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No adhesive necessary<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Past the Hide ‘n Seek lingerie range, beyond Naughty Nurse and Hail Mary sets, to a screened off area with rows of jelly-coloured vibrators and Jiggle Balls. By the time I’m examining a five-foot inflatable penis, she’s close. Need any help? <\/span><\/em>That confidential smile. Yes, do you have nipples?<\/span><\/em> She’s not sure, she’ll check. I’ve lost mine,<\/span><\/em> I add.<\/p>\n

At home. I press the salmon-coloured discs back to back\u00ad\u00ad\u2013\u2013a miniature UFO\u2013\u2013then peel them apart, lick their flat sides, choosing where to place my one-size nipples: near or far, high or low. They sit over the stripes of white scar like elastoplast. Under a T-shirt they appear home-grown. When I touch them they’re always firm.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Projection<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I reach up, pull it down. The shadow<\/p>\n

thrown against the screen<\/p>\n

is the same that patterned the wall<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

but since the backdrop\u2019s white<\/p>\n

and clean, my stare persistent,<\/p>\n

long, I see at last a me I\u2019ve never seen.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Last<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Who can say when the last time was\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

last time you kissed my breast?<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t recall<\/p>\n

it seems like years ago.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All last times move together<\/p>\n

and I wonder<\/p>\n

is this how last is\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

was the last time you kissed me<\/p>\n

the last poem I read, the last time we spoke<\/p>\n

the last pebble I collected from the beach<\/p>\n

the same day the last snow fell?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Is there a crowded place<\/p>\n

where all last things are\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

all letting go?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Intercession<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thoughts on a painting of Saint Agatha<\/em><\/p>\n

by Francisco de Zurbaran<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Virgin martyr, protector<\/p>\n

of valleys, wet nurses, bell founders\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

invoked against breast disease,<\/p>\n

earthquakes, eruptions of Mount Etna.<\/p>\n

Agatha, whose breasts were excised<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

with pincers by order of a jilted lover,<\/p>\n

what do you make of these reconstructed<\/p>\n

bodies? Muscle flaps. Tissue expanded<\/p>\n

by balloon. Thigh and buttock flesh<\/p>\n

ingeniously transposed. Do you admire<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the silicone implants, the polished skin\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

nipples grafted from earlobes and labia,<\/p>\n

areolas tattooed? You stand there<\/p>\n

serene, flat-chested, forever the girl,<\/p>\n

bearing your breasts on a dish<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and if people mistake the hemispheres<\/p>\n

for handbells or perfect loaves of bread,<\/p>\n

help them remember\u2013\u2013each of us<\/p>\n

has severed parts<\/p>\n

we carry separately.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Consolations <\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Our hearts are closer<\/p>\n

when we hug, no bra to grey<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and ruin in the wash, less<\/p>\n

bounce and wobble<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

running for a bus,<\/p>\n

full horizontal contact<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

with the ground, I am<\/p>\n

streamlined<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in air and water, I remind myself<\/p>\n

of me\u2013\u2013and you<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

press your ear to this ribcage,<\/p>\n

hear me live.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Gaze<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You want a publicity shot<\/p>\n

so I send a black-and-white (pre-op, nude,<\/p>\n

cropped\u2013\u2013I am sure\u2013\u2013to shoulders and head).<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But when you double-click<\/p>\n

I\u2019m all there, as I was. You have me<\/p>\n

full-breasted, goose-fleshed in that attic studio.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

If we meet, will your gaze<\/p>\n

be lingering, forensic? Will you recall<\/p>\n

light striping my cleavage like evening sun on dunes?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Will your eye undress, redress me,<\/p>\n

trying to reconcile that image<\/p>\n

with the shape I\u2019ve shifted to?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Seduction<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When they lie together now<\/p>\n

they make new kinds of love. Her fingers<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

trace the gash above his brow<\/p>\n

that bled against the cellar step last year;<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

her breath cools a ring of purple skin<\/p>\n

around a grainy scar. There are<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the usual homely marks\u2013\u2013tip of iron<\/p>\n

to thumb, oven\u2019s edge to wrist, taut patch<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

from scalding milk the day their boy<\/p>\n

turned six. Such tenderness for each<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and for the cicatrice where she was torn<\/p>\n

and stitched that night the baby came;<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the nine-inch stripes of platinum<\/p>\n

across her chest, where breasts have been<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

excised, remembered, grieved<\/p>\n

and almost, now, forgotten.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Account<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In 1811 the writer Fanny Burney underwent a mastectomy,<\/em><\/p>\n

without anaesthetic, at her home near Paris.<\/em><\/p>\n

She later recorded the experience in her journal.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Four carriages stop in the street.<\/p>\n

One last mouthful of wine<\/p>\n

before I ascend the bed,<\/p>\n

two nurses at my side.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Three chimes of the clock.<\/p>\n

Seven men in black, seven<\/p>\n

full glasses of claret.<\/p>\n

Nine stacks of compresses, lint.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A cambric veil across my face,<\/p>\n

the glitter of burnished steel<\/p>\n

and backlit by sun,<\/p>\n

a forearm over my chest.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The surgeon\u2019s index finger<\/p>\n

describes a line, a circle, a cross.<\/p>\n

Six incisions and he changes hands.<\/p>\n

My screams, throughout.<\/p>\n


\n<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All this<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

All this will go on changing,<\/p>\n

you\u2019ll recover some feeling<\/p>\n

and the scars<\/p>\n

will flatten and fade.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When will the first crocus show;<\/em><\/p>\n

which day will the bud split its calyx? <\/em><\/p>\n

Will damselflies hover like summer coming<\/em><\/p>\n

and before summer will there be spring?<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There are signs already\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

roots stirring<\/p>\n

and that chrysalis at your shoulder<\/p>\n

unfolding spangled wings.<\/p>\n


\n<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The bookbinder<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pare the leather, thin the skin<\/p>\n

where it must stretch and crease.<\/p>\n

Then paste: the tanned flesh darkens,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

wet and chill, fingers working<\/p>\n

over spine and cords, into joints,<\/p>\n

mitreing corners neat and flat.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bandage the book in paper, let it<\/p>\n

settle under weights, day after day<\/p>\n

until the leather\u2019s dry and tight.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When the time is right for finishing,<\/p>\n

black the room, clamp the book<\/p>\n

spine up in the beech-wood press,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the lamp pointing where to begin.<\/p>\n

Hot brass letters and a vigilant hand\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n

an accurate blind impression.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Paint in glair with a fine brush,<\/p>\n

lay on gold leaf, with level breath.<\/p>\n

Tilt the light, shadows will reveal<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the place to press the tool again.<\/p>\n

Now, strike the gold\u2013\u2013feel the title<\/p>\n

word by word, bright in the grain.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[ezcol_1half]<\/p>\n

[Forward to Photographs Part Three<\/a>]<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[\/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end]<\/p>\n

[Back to Body<\/a>][\/ezcol_1half_end]<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

for Pippa and for all the others   Self-examination   Get to know your breasts. Near the armpit you may Continue ReadingSelf-portrait without Breasts (Poems by Clare Best, 2007-2011)<\/span>\u2192<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15,"featured_media":0,"parent":405,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-419","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P90GIn-6L","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/419","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=419"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/419\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":823,"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/419\/revisions\/823"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/405"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/reframe.sussex.ac.uk\/lifewritingprojects\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=419"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}