Ghazal with a Tumor

In your father’s shed, we watched the night

pass, seeing who would be the one to kiss first, that might

grope dirt, button, skin, peel. We wondered

if it was the season for the bear and its cub to knot

the horizon, for the hanged witch to rise and walk

in the shed shadows. How could I not guide

your fingers into my mouth? Teeth constellations

into your neck that would fade with the light?

A radiologist looks at the ultrasound, my ovary the size

of your heart—weighted with tumor, blight.

Bury me, the only boy I’ve ever loved and lied to, this night

with inkberries in my belly and a bird that wouldn't take flight.