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I am separating the breast into pieces, sharpening a knife, 
Removing sinew fats cartilage 
Turning the slice over cutting spreading straightening 

I sense the incision of the lymph nodes, underneath the armpit, 
And a bit of the incision in the “breast tail” and at “twelve o’clock” 
Imagining how they sliced my own breast 

On the operating table. First they cut open the nodes, I think, 
To take out a sample for examination, a swift sharp incision in the skin 
And underneath red muscles and blood and a quivering lump. 

I am removing a long white sinew 
I’m naked, covered by a sheet up to my bosom, 
And then a long incision upwards, bursts out red wide open. 

I’m removing one more sinew from the flesh of the breast 
With a scalpel they scrabble inside me with fingers in gloves 
I’m flattening the meat on a cutting board flattening it further with a hammer 

I tend and clean, slice by slice. 
Slowly and calmly, very concentrated, and all there is 
Is to decide: bread crumbs or matza meal. 

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