NOT THAT KIND OF GIRL

Not since high school
have so many people
been interested in my breasts.

The docs tilt their heads,
poke and stroke, admire
my scars. Not bad.
That’s not what people used to praise
about my nakedness
yet I’ve lost my modesty,
refuse a gown, lift my shirt –
it’s quicker that way.

But I am shy again
with these new people
prepping me for radiation.
They tug at my gown –
You TIED it? –
raise the metal table and lean in
close, faces just inches from my breasts,
call out measurements,
slide me this way and that,
align me for the beams of photons.

Staying stock-still isn’t easy,
my body suddenly a hive of itches,
so I stare at a thin red light,
tell myself to meditate.
Another tech enters,
without prelude draws close
for a good, long look.
I worry my nipples are erect.
He pulls out his camera, starts clicking.
I’m not that kind of girl, I joke.

I’ll lie here exactly like this
each morning for the next
six and a half weeks. What I need
is a mantra:
           I’m not that kind of girl...
           I’m not that kind of girl…
           I’m not the kind of girl
           who gets cancer and dies.






Terry Godbey is the author of three poetry collections, Flame, Beauty Lessons and Behind Every Door. The winner of the Rita Dove Poetry Award, she has published poems in literary magazines including Rattle, Poet Lore, Harpur Palate, Pearl, Slipstream and CALYX. She lives with her son in Orlando, FL, and works as a freelance writer and editor.