Five Poems
by Megan Mizanty
The Well Ness Monster
I. Mass
Seven days before the biopsy and 40 minutes away, there’s an antique Christmas village with $65 cast iron pots from the 1930s. Heavy and lasting. And one restaurant along Main Street, boasting homemade espresso martinis that shine like oil. With six days, to stave away the dread: a cut and color hair appointment at a millennial gray salon. A deep, rich auburn for the holidays. On day five, I touch my breast. A 2.5-centimeter oval in the left lower quadrant. Neighbor to the heart, possibly for months or years. Benign etiology. Fibro-something. Doctor talk. Four days looming. My daughter kisses me on the mouth, unexpectedly. Toddlers rarely stay still that long. Her breath a milkshake and a hug. Three days, a trinity of positivity, and my husband sleeps through his alarm. How to open a tampon while checking a diaper while shoving toast in a mouth. Gnash through anger like a biblical prophecy. Two afternoons are mosquito bites. Flick away fantastical thoughts. Don’t worry until you have to worry. A brain scratch and a Web MD search. And today, we wait.
II. Test
Can you feel it? Skin prodding like a child waking you up with a nightmare to be tucked in - the skin sunsets and clouds with the remnants of a needle, tender and indigo wrapped now, showering after three days and nothing heavy above five pounds to lift and no sweating no no sweating strange to know what is piercing and taking a click snapshot of possible cellular growth rampant as Mickey Mouse’s broomsticks along the corridor, endless. I thought it was just a pulled muscle.
III. Results
Think about the swirls of the holidays. Of the jolly light that came from being five and in love with seasons. The snowfallen, safe glow.
From the captain’s log
Week One: An intestine filled with exclamation points. Ripe banana guts and one-off blueberries. The one-two punch, puckered and rotten - that precipice I've stood on each month, the same. Wait for the dips - and here’s the coiled radiator in my lungs, here’s my heart dubstepping.
Week Two: Emerges every 27 days. Changes shape. Tangos off cliffs. At the mercy of irritability, desire, dread. The finale - wisps of serotonin. Gray filter and drop worth, life under bags.
Week Three: The days leading up to the first are oiled and downtrodden, earthy slick and heavy-lined
rivened with “this used to
make me feel something”
Week Four: And then it’s fine. Flutter up again. Light as fuzz.
Elementary school bully
Seven or eight years old, none of us knew
how many grades he was held back.
He walked in contempt, swagger of malice,
and we cowered in line to the water fountain.
(the myths larger than his string bean body).
(his glare enough to hunch spines and bite lips). (the moments he
stood behind you in the lunch line or sat besides you in history class or
swiped you aside for the swings at recess).
I saw him this morning,
holding the door for his daughter.
“Sweetheart, you’ll do great today. Daddy loves you.”
We met eyes for a moment, my hand grasping my toddler’s soft little fingers, no recognition.
And the door softly shut,
and I was
in first grade,
wiping blood from my lips, standing back up.
today
today I will be
so soft with myself, the former selves will clasp and squeeze my hands, rest their
heads on my shoulders, breathe lake-low
and settled in stillness.
today I will be
so soft with my clenches, the twins: shame and stolen,
who scalp away contentment with their silvery-flecked tongues and enduring wheels underfoot.
of course, soft self.
let me lift the back part of my heart, the under-caked side with dusty rooted tendrils and
damp loam earth, rocked up to open air
by
some unwieldy
lightening.
sanctum
I have ten minutes to write this. This is time now, unanchored and floating. I sift the drops, pull them back into the crooks. My arms are always spilling out. Excuses, plans, calendar drops, fractals into octopus limbs, multiple concurrencies, slaking with juice and milk. I just have ten minutes. Then: treks to the potty. Beguiling and distracting. Mollifying. Teetering. Scoop up and hustle. Ten minutes. Sometimes I see landmarks - a hanging wreath of whites, blues, reds - and remember fireworks were last month.I dropped another holiday, stroking past the current. There goes the minutes. Clamorous episodes of knee scrapes, boo boo bites. Another. Decide on the Halloween costumes. Estimate the greeting cards. Budget the classes. Scrape the expired sunscreen goop. Minutes.
BIO: Megan Mizanty (she/her) is an interdisciplinary artist and educator. She served as Assistant Director of the MFA Program at Wilson College, as well as Associate Professor of Dance. Her writing has been published in Danse Macabre Literary Magazine, Ghost City Press, Dark Onus Press, Zoetic Press/Nonbinary Review, iō Literary Journal, Mignolo Arts/Pinky Thinker Press, Alternative Milk Magazine and more. www.mizantymoves.com.