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.
Danni Quintos is a Kentuckian and an Affrilachian Poet. She received her MFA from Indiana University, where she taught writing and served as an Associate Poetry Editor for Indiana Review. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Day One, Pluck!, Best New Poets 2015 and elsewhere. She lives in Lexington with her husband Zach and their Ren & Stimpy cat-dog duo. Rumor has it, she is knitting a cocoon, from which she will emerge when her first book manuscript is finished.
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