the fig men’s final words

permit our early

trespass—we’ve

become prophets

to our ending—

the fruit riddled

with holes—your

wings escaping—

the flower inside

subsuming—our

armor turned to

seed—this is a gift

that tells us

you must leave—

some inner sense

commands us—

our mouths form

an exit—while

pregnant with

flight—you don’t

see our ghosts

coming—sons

crawling—wasps

anxious for birth—

Scheherazade as Henrietta Lacks

I just felt a knot

inside me and went to have it checked.

As a girl, I thought

I’d be remembered for my hazel eyes.

My kin read

my life while my cells double in vitro.

The doctors took

this from me while I spilled on a table.

Home flashes by

like a field filled with tobacco.

My sickness arrives

tubed in labs swarmed with flies.

A harvest occurs

in place of my body.

I metastasize

my survival across several nights.