On the x-ray it looks like a puff ball
I saw once on the lawn after heavy rain
only this one is ripe with your blood,
pushing aside the liver, bladder, kidney,
spleen, locking its fury to their ducts,
massing for future incursions of your gut
while we talk politics or scour the linoleum.
It will stop your voice, they tell us, then
your breath, twist your starling mouth
into a smudge. It waits, they say. And so
do we, watching it ride your small space
hollow you out like a winter gourd
until your eyes ask not why but when.