Dionisio D. Martinez(b. 1956)
In a Duplex Near the San Andreas Fault
When she tells him about the lump in her breast,
he kisses her on the shoulder for the first time—a natural
reflex twenty-some years in the making. Suddenly,
their entire vocabulary revolves around benign
and malignant—words reserved
for these occasions—-though they will say
very little now, then nothing for a long time. His hands
are just as pale and nearly as fragile as rice paper,
but she's not familiar with rice paper
and what she wants most desperately now
is a point of reference. Calla lilies bloom
like some glorious, abandoned music out on the lawn.
She takes one of his hands and thinks
of the spathe, which has the responsibility
of being leaf and petal, content and shape: without it
there would be no calla lily to remember,
nothing to see when she closes
her eyes and places his hand on her breast.