on extraction

by Joyce Nancy

I. i contract a fungus & my mother suggests i deal with it myself. scraping— the infection blooms from me like butterfly wings, insect carcasses unfurling and beautiful in their thick white septicity. i try to treat the pain, protrusion, splintering of fingernail, i try. II. every morning i draw circles with the tip of my nose, drillbit driving its way to the cervical spine, brain stem broken into, grinding of bone on bone. a dispersion of fine dust through all the gunk of my meat and sinews. i get dizzy. i give up. III. my womb bleeds from wounds dug deep into its own muscle, and i, anaemic & faltering, dream of the crystal blue eyes of my daughter. i cannot name her, hold onto her, the image slipping as i grab and grab, so delicate. if i am sick is she already sick? and will she forgive me for trying to name her, trying to name any of this, my body full of lack, the damage of many enemies, that have sucked strength from me, slurping marrow, smiling?