Elisa Duncan
I wonder
what They can see inside of me that I can’t?
Maybe
all my organs have changed into produce— my heart become an apple,
my stomach a winter squash.
Maybe my intestines
have crocheted themselves an afghan?
Maybe I am abuzz with honeybees, or pregnant with a litter of puppies.
Maybe I have six extra chakras
(does that even show up on a PET scan?)
Maybe my blood has vaporized into a pale violet gas.
Or
maybe cancer
has sprinkled itself across my internal sky
like stars embroidered in the black galactic fabric?
While I wait by the phone
for the medical soothsayers to reveal myself to me,
the condition of my mind must be mine.
I can’t make it depend on what they find.
I and only I know the words of my own story.
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