They poked me with a straw
and sucked out some adipocytes, five bulbous bubbles.

I told the nurse my mom died from it
so she held me while she cried,
weeping for the theoretical death of her own mother.

I do not cry.

Four transparent hand grenades dangle from my bodice.

1,300 milliliters worth sucked from my side.

These bombs are just leeches
sucking my fluids with surgical straws so I do not detonate.

Blowing a blue bronchi with an incentive: inflating the piston.

The throat’s vacuum sucks
the air out my respiratory balloon and a string
attached to mother’s hand

And now I understand her decaying moans washed ashore from intercostal canals
after the mass broke the vessel,
a boat adorned with aspirating diamonds.

Gina Tron
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