I finger the hard knob, now slightly larger
than a pea, beneath the flesh of my right
forearm, which the doctor told me was nothing
to worry over, but now I wonder.
I’ve had a lover so elusive, I took his picture
every time I was with him but never could catch
the flutter of his lashes. I was too scared of breaking
my own heart to get a second opinion,
so I learned the art of staying. On his death bed,
an angler fish unprecedentedly swam face first
into daylight, his little body bending the surface
like a bruise, as if to prove to himself the sun is real.
I’ve written my fair share of heartbreak poetry, but this
littlest death wounds like a blade’s last twist against aorta.
I once read that mosquitos are our deadliest predator—
surely they didn’t plug humans into the equation.
How big does a mass have to get before we call it
hostile? A kidney bean, a clementine, a disco ball?
I worry the supposedly benign lump beneath my skin
like a reflex. Remind me again why the world is worth saving.