She never gave her heart away.
Fair prince did not a dragon slay
for the hand of Alice Faye.

You might think he’d swept her off her feet,
laid her on a crisp white sheet.
Startled so – she could not speak.

His hand tender upon her breast
felt the lumps that did infest –
the ones missed by her doctor’s tests.

You almost saw her blush at this
as if instead he’d placed a kiss
within a bed of marital bliss.

He traced a scar to her pelvic mound.
Later deep beneath he’d sound
a cavern never child-bound.

In modesty she’d lived her life –
neither mother nor a wife.
Now silently she serves the knife.

He holds her heart – still – in his hand,
sets it gently in the pan,
records “700 grams.”

Leslie Rzeznik