After the Mastectomy

At the oncologist’s office, a man stares. I stare back
until he says, “People must stare at you.”

Why bother closing a door
when everyone demands it open?

I go to the world with my tongue out
and my shirt unbuttoned, my keys

in the lock,
a six-inch scar instead of a nipple—

how can a watchtower hide?
I am well-positioned to seek out

fires and invading hoards—
my bald head the beacon the first

alarm.