by Leah Taylor

An alien sac inside my wrist, my joint
pregnant with nerves and nervously pregnant
and four years overdue.
If you poked it aside, it would move for you,
perform a little side step around my right hand.
The doctor said this was due to the synovial fluid content
but I believed I had a talented tumour, and I,
its host and un-consenting dance floor, had to endure the pain
caused by the intrusion of the stalk gripping my bone.


When I awoke I immediately started to cry.
The nurse said this was a common response to the anaesthetic
but perhaps I was mourning my gelatinous friend.
I often wonder how they disposed of that small marble cyst
that they sliced out of me. Surely they couldn’t throw it in the bin?
Would it constitute as food waste— like unused meat in a butchers?
I digress. I will not soon forget my funny little ganglion.
Mostly because it has left in its wake a fat, red centipede scar.
And because another ganglion has formed in my other wrist.