I’m sorry, the biopsy declares “c_ _ _ _ _,” that forsaken word that nobody likes.
I’ll have to pass you to the “surgeon,” another dreaded utterance, who cuts with a knife.
He’ll watch over you, my brave one, while you slumber through the task.
Will I feel anything? she quietly asks.
He enters the room, and there it is, the monstrous mass in all its ugliness,
Fed by life-giving cords, multiplying and disseminating from its nest.
The fingers commence their delicate dance,
Digging and cutting, tying and burning,
Flipping and turning, alas it is released.
The beast is removed, and she takes her own breath,
Exhausted and exhaling a deep sigh of relief.
Now the battle ensues, in this war against “c.”
Dissecting, inspecting, digesting, extracting,
Dismantling the machinery that the eye cannot see.
God will you help us in this wafare for knowledge,
Does it have a weak spot, a so called Achilles’ heel?
Point our bow, send our arrow, flying through the cytoplasm,
Reaching its target, ending the war, against the beast, against the “c.”