I am not at the center of anything. Seen at a distance I am hardly seen. Excruciating, how here i am, how little it means. I use my mouth to make sounds which approximate my innermost thoughts but often bungle it. I use my eyes when I need to be understood. Sometimes I tell the truth but only when I think I"ll be valued for being interesting instead of good. I marvel at what I call my life—ambulances, sparrows, clouds passing definitively by—amazed that it doesn't know it's mine at all, the minor characters don't look up, the narrative sags, and I each moment wondering if this is when the real story starts.
The laparoscopic surgery found nothing— I imagined the doctor would find my insides swimming In cancer, some sort of spiderweb scar tissue From previous surgeries, so much visceral fat he may be unable to see Anything at all. My pelvis is perfect and normal and I am not Riddled with cancer. I was so sure this would be the end. Now that I’m not dying, I guess I must keep living. Maybe with a little more purpose and less waiting for what is tragic. Maybe I’ll have more discipline to take walks and honor my body and more compassion for my lover. Maybe we’ll have lots of sex since the doctor removed my tubes. Maybe I’ll watch the sunset down by the river more often. Dozens of teeny tiny spiders, no larger than a ballpoint of a pen, Built their webs in the clover. Hidden from view Until the light from the sunset landed in the most perfect way. Much like prayer. Imagine wishing for death and missing This. Imagine no more homemade biscuits with c...
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