Somewhere in the furrows of pink and gray
flesh, nestled between delicate arches of pelvis,
in what was supposed to be bowels and pulsating warmth,
lies the wish for chemotherapy.

The old images of skull-white sundresses
glimmering with the glory of summer days in the world of Perfect Thighs
fester imperceptibly,
buried in some remote corner of the midbrain
which smells unpleasantly of half-digested chicken parmesan

and before you can forget the feeling of a taste
that wasn't filled with antimetabolites and metastatic guilt
you remember your mother balancing a salad fork between chalk fingers
while the full plate in front of you reminds you of ruptured organs.