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.