My mom had her first mastectomy in 1949 when she was pregnant with me.  Things were different then. Mom and her contemporaries had no support after mastectomy. They had the surgery, were sent to get fitted for prostheses … and that was that. There were no hospital or clinic classes in art and poetry for healing. There were no support groups, no talk therapy. Perhaps worst of all, there was no privacy about medical records. My mother actually turned… Read More

Video posted to YouTube by SpokenVerse. My first reaction is: I want it, can’t wait to squeeze into a scarlet sheath that promises breasts round as russet apples, a waist pinched to a pencil, hips that know the whole dictionary of swaying, can’t wait to saunter down an August street with every eye upon me. But the moment I’m zipped in I can’t breathe and the fabric hugging my stomach without mercy… Read More