Needle Biopsy
The room was neutral, hushed
and dim, except for sconces
that glowed like modest bouquets
and a cone of light budding
from the end of a flexible stem.
It seemed like a lot of people
for a simple biopsy: a doctor
to guide the needle, a nurse
to give and receive, another
who came in just to hold
my hand. There are all kinds
of love in this world, here
to be gathered, carried,
pressed between pages
as our grandmothers did,
knowing they’d forget
how something unexpected
arose and shimmered
on a particular day,
wanting to remember.
Brett Warren (she/her) is the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Canary, Cape Cod Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, Hole in the Head Review, ONE ART, Rise Up Review, SWWIM, Westchester Review, and other literary publications. She is a 2024 Pushcart nominee and was a triple nominee for Best of the Net in 2023. She lives in a house surrounded by pitch pine and black oak trees—nighttime roosts of wild turkeys, who sometimes use the roof of her writing attic as a runway. http://www.brettwarrenpoetry.com
Amethyst Review 