Biopsy

 
Here on the cold examination table,
I miss the cradle of my bra.
Soon the radiologist will sink
a bright needle into my breast.
 
In the low afternoon light,
I envision a woman and a man
painted on a basilica’s ceiling,
she in a red robe, he in muted brown.
 
The doctor positions my body on the table—
the woman becomes my mother,
red gown illuminated
 
by the light of her dressing table,
and the man, my father waiting
for her in the blue plaster sky
that holds them.