I don’t know how she does it, I don’t know how she did.
Seven men, and when the question rose, Qui me tiendra ce sein? she said, I will.
And like today, my choice laid plain, when I look back, would I make it again?
I don’t know how she did it and I walk towards the knife.
Steel glitters, strange perverted choice.
Cut me! I call. Slice me left and right.
(And all the world watches Angelina Jolie, seeming unscathed.)
And the man, it’s always a man, takes up the knife.
Strange courage, cut that which might be good.
His risk, and mine, partners in violation.
What good could my breasts have done, what harm?
Death and life in his plastic hand.
I don’t know how she did it, each morning as I watch my fingers crawl a little higher up the wall.
Did I make the right choice?
She chose. They never knew what grew inside her.
I’ll never know if I share my sister’s fate (it’s ninety-ten) and still I chose the blade.
What choice had she?