Dread

of no small size swelling

in me. I will liken it to a grapefruit,

the frequent object of comparison in stories

about ovarian cysts. Another failure

of language. I’ve juiced enough grapefruits to know

some are swollen to comical dimensions,

mostly rind. Others full of flesh

fit snugly in the hand. Whatever the size

of my dread, its swell

overtakes me here: one tenth mile preceding

Exit 169. I will have an accident here

someday, which will eject me from this car or

eject something out of me while I remain

seatbelted to the car. Driving to work

to open a bar and then to close it, the shift

the length of half a day. I can’t think

of the hours that stand between

me and my drink, the seat I will take to give

my stress fractured foot and my overgrown

womb a break. This disease feels nothing

like grapefruits in me, more like a melon

that keeps melon-balling itself. “A what?”

this customer asks, disgusted. A melon baller.

My wrist makes the motion. We both watch me make it.

September 14, 2024
  •  
Poetry
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