Amazon Owen Sheers

It begins ---
Maybe when she's dressing, her fingers tucked
under the wire of her bra.

Or idly in the bath
their familiar weight
made light of,

or in the mirror, one arm ballerinaed high,
the other testing the water
of her own flesh.

A mote under the skin
settling in her breast,
soft but hard as cartilage, and busy with its own beginning.

*

He tells her kindly enough, and anyway
she knows what's coming, or rather what's already there,

by the way he offers the seat,
his practised look of concern and the slow pace of his voice

that keeps the end of what he has to say
always at arms length.