Baseline Mammogram

My breasts are aliens who cling to me
as they are studied and squeezed
each from their three dimensional wonder
into a benign plane,
camera-ready.

I should not be so attached to them;
they could be flotsam and jettison if necessary,
I guess,
should I need to keep my head above
those salty waters.

I often wake to find myself touching them,
not as if they were pale, distant creatures,
but rather, indigenous,
their familiar roundness
mimicked by the curve of my hands
just above the beating of my heart.