Say that it bloomed, put down roots, lodged
like an egg in a nest, snow in a cleft, wedged
for a winter’s nap, say it
turned three times round, curled up
with its nose toward the door.
Say myometrium. Say wand. Say gel,
neoplasm, adenoma. Say benign.
Put a light bulb behind it and watch it
Say the raven is growing
a new planet in your body.
Should the nascent body bloom, say
is this the beak, that the beginning of legs.
First published in North American Review and later included in Jenifer's second poetry collection,Grayling.
Jenifer Browne Lawrence is the author of Grayling (Perugia Press, 2015), and One Hundred Steps from Shore (Blue Begonia Press, 2006). Her work appears in Bracken, The Coachella Review, Los Angeles Review, Narrative, North American Review, and elsewhere. She lives on Puget Sound, and edits the Seattle-based journal, Crab Creek Review. Say hi on twitter @jeniferbrowne.