Do you spend time with them? Tracing the scar,
comparing the sizes now – one falling low
the other upheld by the lines the knife left,
empty for everything it took out?
After a long shower in our small room
in Vernazza, you asked if I had ever seen it –
that I might as well – and opened your robe for me,
looking down at your asymmetrical chest
like memorabilia from the war. Do they hurt, mom?
These days you have newer wounds to lick:
uneven stairs laugh at you, sixty-five and kicking,
vertebras still healing like fractured roof shingles
you can’t climb to fix. In this town, the swallows follow you
everywhere. You walk slow into the vineyards,
cold French sun pressing down into your UV-protected
shirt, tightly wrapping a body you’re still learning to love,
slowly, armoring your breasts against any wandering ray.