love poem to the gastroenterologist who will diagnose me


how do our own bodies undo themselves,

then stitch back together like fledgling stars?

new discovery: the human stomach

was found stuffed full of dead constellations,  

so maybe  that’s why i turn bloated   


& broken when you don’t text me back.

you create a new galaxy inside my body

as   beautiful as the dawn of the world,

swirling euphoria of cyan, red-

shift, heliotrope, ink—listen, baby


if we did not learn how to adore our

misdiagnosed bodies, where would we be?

slow-dancing in lab coat & gown, right

beside a hospital issue cot, or

watching a whole cosmos  burst open, bleed.