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.