Mammogram

by Jo McDougall

“They’re benign,” the radiologist says,

pointing to the specks on the x ray

that look like dust motes

stopped cold in their dance.

His words take my spine like flame.

I suddenly love

the radiologist, the nurse, my paper gown,

the vapid print on the dressing room wall.

I pull on my radiant clothes.

I step out into the Hanging Gardens,  the Taj Mahal,

the Niagara Falls of the parking lot.