Vol. 1 - Issue 5 [Molly Sutton Kiefer]
The day they found the lump, I bought a cake,
maraschino cherry tucked in white froth
at the center of thawing black frosting.
I could feel it, a small burning pit
measured six inches above, lilting right of the axis.
I count this day in footsteps—from bakery to car,
to library, to market, and back again,
beneath round shapes—hanging flower baskets,
the shadowy bluffs in the distance, the bulb
of treetops, the quick threat of clouds.
Everything’s shape is muted in the wind.
A blizzard propelled through the weekend, the cake forgotten,
cooling in the refrigerator, brave knife ready.
figures
fig 1.
At the exhibit, I was able to peer into the canyon of the dead woman’s body. This woman stands erect, skin peeled back, organs shuffled away to reveal: ovary, fallopian tube, uterus. All cursed. All without anything to say.
fig 2.
I think of all the tumors with spindles of hair, clutches of teeth. Mine is a smooth pearled problem. In the glass case is a cystic self, but I cannot discern invasion from welcomed growth—it mirrors healthy, smooth-walled, obstructive.
fig 1.
Sinew like heat lightning across her cheeks. The hearty spin and curl of intestines thrust out. Glands like clamshells adorning her throat. Smooth shouldered strokes of muscle. Nose-shaped ovary, knob of flesh. Drape of omentum. Primate ears, flared nostrils. Round sponge of petite breasts. Wrinkled flesh, button-badge nipples.
fig 2.
Peach pit: wrinkled and old and all that’s left over. A little meat still there, the juice a part of without. It’s something I can carry by marsupial pouch, keep it with me every day, reach down and touch it, touch it, the lines and caverns and the shape of something—not empty but not becoming.
