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.
