I am nervous about this post, which is probably why I’ve waited until I’m on holiday to publish it.

I’ve written a poem. I don’t know why publishing poetry feels more exposing than writing about every aspect of my dance with breast cancer, but it does.

Anyway, here goes. I hope you like it.

*

The Answer

‘So, why are you moving?’ has replaced, ‘So, how are you?’

(head on one side, meaningful eye contact)

as the question I am asked more than any other.

The answer is not simple:

Because cancer made me ache every mile from here to my mother.

Because dancing with cancer shines an unforgiving light everywhere and London, like my scarred and puckering breast, does not look good in an unforgiving light.

Because what matters now is near me wherever I am.

Because there the beaches are empty and the sky is unlimited and I newly crave salt air.

The answer is to be standing naked from the waist up and asking to be understood.

So I have found another answer, also true:

‘Because it’s time.’

*

‘Why do you think you have breast cancer?’

‘Because it’s time.’

The words were there before they had told me what they were going to be.

They frolicked between us, surprising.

The room was bare and bright. A dull print of a possible rose on the wall; clean curtains; real chairs.

Only the box of tissues, shadow of the freshly diagnosed, said that this was counselling.

We watched the words a while.

I still don’t understand them. I still think they are true.