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.
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