Bushy spring blooms, one day soon
(a feisty yellow now, in the backyard)
will be dead too.
Be these forsythias my last?
(For Sythia, for Cynthia, my nursery teacher.
Bright flowers remember me my past.)
Because of this biopsy: I see
Cynthia, and darling lover press, undress, and
breathe, and try just to be…
Biopsy, see what.
Try to see it as a gift that helps me know
how lucky I am to be here. But
But what narrative will later describe April oh-five
when this spring is being looked back at,
by those others, who are still alive?
Being a kind of ninth months pregnant. Baby
soon to be born: coming any minute now, named
Miss Benign? or Ms. Malignant, maybe?
Bow, then, to Sergeant Second Opinion?
Bushwhack the Cancer Landscape, or scout the valley of
the Preventative Surgery Dominion…
Boldly will I rappel a radiation ravine?
Spelunk miles of dark chemotherapy caves? Is that me?
Surfing the sweaty night-mirror dream...
Beastly stupid plastic tubing snaking in and out
bubbling my body’s places. Vast hospital tundra, where people wear
their smiles professional, to try to hide all doubt.
Biopsy, by the way,
and they try to reassure, but is it “Good-bye?”
Soon? Later? or Today?