And before it was her ovaries. And before it was her breasts.
When she saw my tattooed arms they reminded her
of surgery, of the nipples they created: gathering skin
around the egg of her new breast, the color they buzzed
needlewise. Why do I need nipples? she asked me while I cut
carrots into fingers. No one will ever see them. And maybe this
is what she said about the following subtractions.
Seventy-one years in a body she never shared.
