This time I’m breast. Face down, breasts hanging as still as I could be.I brought my breasts, body, here,it feels like. I am not exactlymy body today. I remember choosing dying in my sleepduring the childhood game,as if we could predict or choosethat kind of ending. I repeat the soft animal of your body –it hurts to forget the geese, Mary Oliver’s name, to rest my middle on a plastic support, even if covered with a towel. In the waiting room, I don’t think of Elizabeth Bishop and the horrifyingbreasts in the National Geographic she read in another waiting roomas a child. I am an adult, reading about park rangersworking with beavers to save the foreststhrough dams.To trust an animal, to trust ourselves.To trust that nature can be contained. I am sure I will die of cancer. Does this stave off the car accidents?————————————–Chloe Yelena Miller called us from Washington, DC.voicemailpoems.org/submit/facebook.com/voicemailpoemsx.com/voicemailpoemsbsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.socialinstagram.com/voicemailpoems