Last week, a commenter said my dental post made her “squirm” and asked that I not give the blow-by-blow of my recent root canal (which was, admittedly, pretty grisly). So OK, let’s dish about mammograms instead. I’ll be doing mine soon. Last year, I chose the closest facility and totally lucked out. Their mammography tech had worked hard to create a spa-like atmosphere: a Keurig machine with assorted herbal teas, soft terrycloth robes, current issues of women’s magazines and the pièce de résistance, a revolutionary “variable-pressure” mammo-gram machine. Your boobs still get flattened, but gently, as if they were sofa cushions being sat upon by the world’s politest elephant.
If they added complimentary mani-pedis, women would be beating down the door.
I’ve condensed the mammogram experience into a new-to-me poetry form. A TYBURN is a six-line poem, four rhyming lines of two syllables each, followed by two rhyming lines of nine syllables each. Lines 1 and 2 reappear as syllables 5, 6, 7, and 8 in line 5. Lines 3 and 4 reappear as syllables 5, 6, 7, and 8 in line 6. You’ll get it when you see it in action:
MAMMOGRAM IN A NUTSHELL
Left breast, right breast, undressed, compressed, trapped
squashed flat… flatter… flattest… breathless… SNAP!
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