| Old as my grandmother, she smiles up at me, breath gentle and lulled, her fears distracted by my questions and patter. I percuss her chest, listen to her heart, my style cool and entertaining as any close-up magician until I palpate her breast, feel her flesh like decayed leaves crushed by time to a star of coal. My fingertips define the borders, sweat beads under my arms, thoughts flash ahead to the incision's red arc, the yellow bottles of poison. Her laughter breaks my trance: You should have seen them when I was younger. Oh for a stronger magic, that I could wave my arms and reach deep inside my white coat pocket, the mass vanished, my hand a heaven of diamonds over her generous breasts. |
