Orchiectomy

By Andrew Garvin

/ Poetry /    

I teeter along life’s cantilever

for the hundredth time over,

and today, cancer. Same as my dad’s.

I’m ripped open, long after his death,

for the hundredth time over,

thinking of his singular love of cycling.

I’m ripped open, long after his death,

wondering if he knew

of my utter disdain for cycling?

That he would die by it, not cancer?

I wonder if he could know

how quickly my grief spins

the longer I survive my cancer.

I look up a definition for anomaly:

an unendingness. My grief spins

like the revolution of a bike wheel.

Only after he’s gone, I learn anomaly

is my queer body trying to keep up

against the revolution of a bike wheel.

Visions of his corpse splat on the pavement

recall a queer body trying to keep up.

He’d hate that. I’m still desperate to come out

to visions of his corpse splat on the pavement.

Look how he left me:

I hate how desperate I’ve become.

Today, testicular cancer, just like him.

Look how he left me

teetering along life’s cantilever.