Tumors, Tumors, Tumors
Fentanyl, too, executes the first role of poetry: Things become
other things: father, a sailboat. bed– a white sea,
Splendid patch, I was made to beg the nurse to beg
the doctor for you. I was made to welcome arrows
into my bowels.
So that arrow becomes sun-ray. Then magic, then
my grandmother’s hand.