When she told me, the words slipped

out the back door of her mouth:

abnormal

probably

dysplasia

nothing.

I wish I had heard them in Greek or Arabic,

so I wouldn’t be able to understand

biopsy

results

cauterization

uncertain.

Every decision of reckless abandon,

even 90 on the Turnpike

suddenly seems safer

next to this swab and scrape of mortality.

I imagine it

nestling in blankets of tissue and mucus

while we wrote to each other

on unlined journal paper

between the hours and days

of opening mail, making reservations,

sleeping late on a Sunday morning–

This is a map of our time apart.

These are moments it spent growing,

in the place that only I touch her.