Flash in the Pan

A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights


by Nancy Considine

The doctor in a business shirt stands beside me. He is the modern hunter searching for the beast in my breast. With one pump of the gun he injects ooze into my arm. I feel it moving through my lymphatic system alongside muscle and bone like a bullet pulsing through flesh.

A gray steel cave arches over me. Cameras are stuck in the cave walls and send messages to a black screen pinned inches away from my eyes. Tiny dots meet big dots, fuse, form patterns, then scoot away. They are micro-scouts sending messages to computers behind the glass at the end of the room.

I have time to think. Is it true what is said about the Shamans? They fought beasts to make their way into dark caves to create art on the walls one dot at a time. The dots tell us about their lives, their fears, their desires. Is that wreath of dots on Neolithic breasts at Le Combel a connection to me? Are those dots and my dots linked in a universal unconscious? Those breasts and my breasts, once symbols of nurture and fertility, now ravaged by time.

Nancy Considine, Hatfield, MA. Born in Pittsburgh. Worked as a journalist in Chicago, New York. Ran a bookstore and taught philosophy in Connecticut. Writing and living now in Western Massachusetts. A prose poem, "Show-off" was published in Equinox, 2007.

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