Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

The Lump

has been under my left breast
for years.
I do not fear this lump, it
has never been examined, prodded
or poked. No biopsy would 
its contents. 

You gave me the lump
in spring of 1996 and for years
I was ashamed that others would 
the scar, the discolored 
flesh. But last
winter, at 28, I 
stepped from the shower,
I saw the lump, ran my 
still-wet fingers over it,
and remembered your face 
in shock as you realized
you had shot me; your shoulders 
pulling back from aim position,
your eyes expanding into 
and possibly sorrow. 
At 28 I chose to 
love the lump,
showed my 
girlfriend and told her the story
of how a BB bullet branded
my body and how you were
generous to leave something
for me.
sSarah Cooper hails from Clemson, South Carolina where she spends her time teaching and writing.  She has recent publications in Shot Glass Journal and Night Owl.  Her passion is self-improvement and when she’s not writing she’s working out her body as an owner and operator of a local CrossFit box.

Categories: Poetry

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