gathering

It's a withered thing,
frail. I keep it wound up
in a skein of red yarn,
adorned with baubles,
hidden far down in my belly
for safekeeping.

Now the pangs are gentler,
the burn behind my breastbone
weaker, as the tumor rests,
ruthful and protected.
But you want to rouse it,
anger it, see what happens

when you pull its legs off.
You poke it with a stick, call
it names, rough it up a bit.
Not so bad, you think, she's
been exaggerating about this.
Always so dramatic, she is.

My guts wracked with acid,
you tug hard on the orphan end.
It knots, and knots again;
the bile comes up, settles.
I am left gathering yarn
wondering how long this will last.