Walk of the One-Breasted Women

By Patricia Wellingham-Jones

A strange congregation,
these warrior women
creating our own modern myth.
Feet clunky in Reeboks
we march down Main Street,
less interested in destination
than in being.
Hairless heads helmeted

in turbans, wigs and baseball caps
(full heads of hair follow rites of passage).
Not all are one-breasted.
Some have no breasts, others
a sad little half, or large pinch
taken out of the fullness.

Each carries a shield,
tiny ribbon loop in pink
pinned on the front of her shirt.
Most have taken poison
to drive out the invader, all
live with the sense of time racing.
On this day we join together,
pool our ages, strength,
our hearts. Watch as people

on the streets join in.
By the end of the walk
we’re all laughing with joy,
send a glow of hope heavenward
in a cloud wrapped with pink