Mammogram

by Linda Laderman

I watch the deaf woman in the waiting room.

I watch her watch me. We watch each other watch.

Neither of us watch the soap opera on the screen.

Keeping things buried have unintended consequences.

She wears a black knitted cap. We wear fuchsia and pink robes.

The mammographer points to the woman’s file, then gestures.

When my name is called, the technician says she’ll scan 20 women.

What number am I? She repeats the last two images.

I must be number 20. I drop my robe in the soiled linen bin.

It overflows with fuchsia.

BIO: Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet and writer. Her poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, numerous literary journals, including Gyroscope, SWWIM, ONE ART, Thimble Literary Magazine, The Scapegoat Review, Rust &Moth, Minyan Magazine, Third Wednesday, and Mom Egg Review. She is the 2023 recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize, and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her mini-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online at https://www.harbor-review.com/what-i-didnt-know-i-didnt-know. Find her at lindaladerman.com