In the tip of his finger, the tech
held the Isthmus of the butterfly
in my thyroid where the cyst
landed, buried— black flesh.

Adding cold cream to his instrument,
rolling it over the front of my naked
neck— he spread white substance
below my Adam’s apple, drawing it

All long the edge of my windpipe.
Twisting my head around, taking
quick bold strokes, leaving me
— dizzy, cold, unprepared to feel.

While he sought weakness in my
cyst, I closed my eyes, imagining
blindness as the place to weave
cocoons hiding my growing cells.

In my paper gown, I felt apparitions
falling like tears. Turning off swirls,
the tech seized upon an image of
the thyroid’s lobes around the

Isthmus where the cyst found rest.
laying on the long table, feeling
something in it contracted, until
I let it go, sensing the tech’s

Cool hand reach out, accepting
his motion whole and plain.
What persisted beyond that
ghostly screen? Who saw

The song my body sang? Why,
pinned down like a moth
on a cardboard tray,
deconstructed the

Isthmus between my thyroid’s
wings, will stanzas arise praising
Mother Earth? Who holds up
my butterfly to soar— silent

Reminder— sky in clouds,
passing tender in the wind?
Who floats me round without
my Isthmus?

Who will carry my lobes?
Oh butterfly!
Don’t let me down.

Love can’t cease.