There’s a tiny poet inside me
eating away, gnawing and chewing—
insistent, garrulous and outspoken;
he insists he’s older than dirt.
I tend to doubt him on this.
I assume he’s lying, mostly.
Anyhow, having a poet like this
live in your gut can be difficult.
The symptoms mimic I.B.S.
My new urologist had an idea:
we’ll ramp up the testing. Irradiate.
Intubate. Scan, probe and irrigate.
Tiny poet, however, resists
analysis and becomes irate
Flapping his funny boots about,
stomping his miniature feet
and blotting his stupid feather
pen on what feels like my
sigmoid or perhaps the stump
of my missing appendix.
He tends to become inflamed
tiny poet, okay, I believe you.
Lisa Magnuson has been writing since 1990, but got a diagnosis of severe endometriosis in April 2010 and since then have delved into a personal health journey that has blown her mind. Food, lifestyle, work, sex, and social life, all changed. And while she has always written effortlessly, and somewhat lazily, just for the pleasure of it—she’s now possessed. She has a theme. She has a reason to write. She wakes up routinely at 3 am, with poems such as the one above, fully formed, and ready to type out.
Ed. Evan Livesay
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