Mammogram

I undress to the waist, armpits free 

of deodorant at the form’s request.

Guiding me to the machine, she places 

my left breast on a cold, perspex plate. 

My nipples do not react.

She hefts and adjusts. The machine compresses, 

it's like squeezing my breasts in a fridge door.

I think I'd rather give birth again. Her Crocs 

trudge from the booth, while her

grimace exudes impatience.

She readjusts my chest on the plate.

Jesus, let this be over soon. I cling to 

the machine, clenching teeth, fists and buttocks, 

while killing two birds with a few Kegels. Wish I'd popped 

a paracetamol or three, as I ponder what to do for tea.

Lorraine Carey

Lorraine Carey’s work explores recovery and navigating loss through creativity, nature, and ornithology. Her poems feature in Magma, Spelt, Poetry Ireland Review, The Cormorant, One, Ragaire, and Ink Sweat &Tears among others. She works in mental health support.