for L
 

the morning after your diagnosis we don’t say endometrial
cancer__because we’ve stayed locked in post-coital knots

woozy with whispering names for the future__we don’t
dare blurt hysterectomy__and the blessing of never having

to mouth uterine sarcoma takes months to memorize
—: instead__we weigh the two blue notes held by your uterus

_____You’ll never know, Dear . . .

ode to the knifed and hallowed midst of your tomorrow
ode to the retired wright well of our son’s slow arrival

ode to the serosa drift that slickened the pelvic gathering
ode to the fertile-bombed bardo of probability

ode to the sung and silent afterbirths of loss
ode to the ghosts now in our bed

ode to your head raised from the wet riddle of hands
ode to the bloody almost of everything__ode to the uterus

_____You’ll never know, Dear . . .

the morning after your surgery__we don’t say endometrial
cancer__because we’ve stayed locked in post-coital knots

woozy with whispering names for the future__we don’t
dare blurt hysterectomy__and the blessing of never having

to mouth uterine sarcoma takes years to memorize
—: instead__we weigh the two blue notes held by your uterus

_____You’ll never know, Dear . . .

Invented by Cave Canem elder Afaa Michael Weaver, the Bop is a form of poetic argument in three movements. Each stanza is followed by a refrain (usually from a song) and each attempts a different engagement with the tension central to the poem.