Ultrasound shows them:
moth holes
in the vacuum of the ovum.
Medics refer to ‘strings of pearls’,
some of which teethe,
their tissue is that much an assortment of cells,
casting out hair and bone to become
small sacks of offerings stored
in the tract.
Even without the scan wand
painting this wall before children,
the cysts are clear now,
grounding me like pebbles.
But I can leave the hospital for home
where I don’t keep
plants in urns, their roots all stoppered
with gravel.
I’ll try to induce myself,
conducting the passage of a lunar month
through measures of darkness and light.
I’m waiting for my body to snow.