From Thursday afternoon Maths lessons
I remember geometry.
My body has become
a map of dimensions one, two and three.
The day before the operation,
when I looked in the glass,
I saw my symmetry for the last time.
Both nipples could be teased
into excited raspberries.
Now I am lopsided.
Medieval painters transformed the Madonna breast
into a globe where the Christ child suckled.
Now my three-dimensional globe
is sliced down to a one-dimensional line,
an infinite series of points
stretches where the globe had been,
but, angrier than a line, the scar
has two dimensions, width as well as length.
To either side the scar—
true representatives of the first dimension—
dots. These tattoos were not chosen in a parlour
from a template book of daggers and celtic knots.
They act as markers for the radiographer
to measure up and burn away my cancer.
The radiation and the chemotherapy