To the Cyst Growing in My Belly

At first
I had no idea
you were there,
hiding on the dark side
of the ovary—

tendrils, tiny shoots
of root taking hold
of the orb.

You appeared
like a phantom
in a photo
of the womb—

more alone
than ground control
and the voice of a stranger
could make me feel.

But, there you were,
the size of a plum,
full of sweet water
and smiling at the trick
you’d played,
found in this game
of peek-a-boo
with your mother.

Surgery, the doctor said.
Removal, puncture, twisting,
death, hysterectomy,

or, at my frown-creased brow.

Wait and see
with needles and herbs,
talk therapy,
castor oil and heat.

Wait and see.

Take another photo
later.
Line them up
like the growth
of a healthy child.
Fat cheeks, giggling
curls.

I make conversation
in that dark place,
ask what the lesson is
in this holding,

in this secret language
of the body
trying to tell me something
from the inside
out--
like pulses
on a ticking
clock.