Just Take My Breast
I kept wishing she would die the way other mothers died
tranquil, at peace, under the soulful watch of spouses who recite Frost
sons who strum Segovia daughters who never stray
who know what to do, what to say. Not like me, wandering girl
with mighty wings, shored by her words now lost in the language of loss.
I tried to make sense of this dark new domain studied the stages of grief, tracked
Mom’s moods as her tumors spread. After one long throbbing cough
she begged an alien God: Please, just take my breast, not my life.
I wrote bargaining. When she awoke from a dream and cried out
I forgot I was sick! I wrote denial. Mom kept dying. I kept writing.
Then on a day that began like all others the nurse called, urged me to hurry.
It wasn’t long before I abandoned my words, grounded my wings.
Irene FickNew Hope, Pennsylvania
She wears a skinny black dress. Panty hose, also black, flattens extra flesh around her middle. Mahogany locks have replaced those pesky strands of gray. Wispy bangs conceal the deepening crease between brows. Spicy Cinnamon tints her lips.
Tonight, at Odette’s, she perches on the stool near Bobby, the doe-eyed crooner who holds court at the baby Grand. Her dollars fill his tip jar, her polished hand caresses the mic. Fortified by Cabernet, she lingers, shares her sultry mezzo soprano with the room.
She no longer dwells on the nights she starred on small stages, basked in applause. How she rehearsed her lines in the shower, how she belted I Could Have Danced All Night, Hello, Dolly, I Dreamed a Dream.
Tonight, in the seductive glow of this piano bar in a dimly-lit café on a dying river, Bobby beckons her to sing. It is enough.
Four Lies and a Few Truths
I. Concealed behind a velvet shroud, I recite my sins to the phantom priest: impure thoughts, a few curse words, talking back to Mom – a litany of the usual crap. For penance, I mumble 10 Hail Marys and one Our Father. Truth is: I am not sorry.
II. I puff out my tummy, confess to Johnny I am breaking up with him because I’m pregnant with Dominic’s baby. I am 18 and this is a lie. Truth is, I can no longer stand the sight of him. Six months later, Johnny glares at my flat belly, points out that Dominic has enlisted in the Army. I respond with downcast eyes: Yes, I lost the baby. But, truly, I’ll be OK.
III. In my mid-twenties, I lie to Mom as she struggles to breathe through a maze of tubes. I tell her she will soon come home to crochet that quilt she was designing just before her lungs collapsed. Dad tells her they will fly to Jamaica, a second honeymoon. In our family, we are not allowed to say “cancer.” After Mom dies, I stare at the spot of empty soil where her begonias should have been blooming.
IV. My dear friend Joyce dies alone in Hospice hours after I leave. When I compose her obituary, I write she was surrounded by family. In truth, she was surrounded by last week’s lilies, a battalion of pills and the hiss of a white noise machine.
V. Writers lie all the time. We use lies to tell the truth. We re-invent ourselves, re-imagine our stories. We re-frame difficult truths in an elegant way so readers will fall in love with our words.
Irene Fick of Lewes (DE) is the author of The Fragility of Winter (Broadstone Books, 2025), The Wild Side of the Window (Main Street Rag) and The Stories We Tell (Broadkill Press). The earlier books received first place awards from the National Federation of Press Women. Irene’s poems have been published in such journals as Delmarva Review, Gargoyle, Willawaw Journal and Blue Mountain Review. Her essays have appeared in River Teeth Journal, Hippocampus Magazine, Short Reads and Schuylkill Valley Review. In 2025, she was awarded an Individual Artist Fellowship in creative nonfiction from the Delaware Division of the Arts and the Delaware State Arts Council. Irene can be reached at irenefickpoet.com