She tells me that as soon as those protrusions
sprouted, she knew they didn’t belong.
They feel as alien, she says,
as the frilly pastel undies
her mother made her wear.
Grown, her body becomes her canvas.
She is sleeved-up with blue snakes coiling
her arms, their tongues darting out
underneath her chin.
She understands it is different for me,
that I don’t want a permanent
testament to anyone inked in my skin,
and that when my chest was renamed breasts,
I welcomed those modest orbs.
She tells me that no one will ever talk at her tits again.
We both agree that is a perk, and that jerks
ogling me is my burden for liking mine;
and she will awaken from surgery
relieved that underneath her bandages
her chest is flat like a door
that opens into a garden
where she finds herself inhabiting
the body she was meant to wear.