By Robin Kinzer
Body has decided to grow strange cells
like stalactites we saw on field trips
in the fifth grade. Body has decided
first a rare disease, then cancer scare.
I have decided to feel beautiful
no matter what may come next.
I wear crimson pantsuits that kiss
my feet. I wear cobweb-kissed
black lace dresses, with wide black
velvet belts that cinch tender waist.
Inside my abdomen, cells I imagine
as crystals tumble over one another.
Imagine them as jewels instead
of that which might kill me.
Picture the rock tumbling kit
I had in the fifth grade, how
every stone came out gleaming
and new, as if dripping wet.
If only the marvels that grow
inside of me were as beautiful
as I am determined to stay.
Robin Kinzer is a queer, disabled poet, memoirist, teacher, and editor. She once played a communist beaver in a PBS documentary. Robin has poems and essays published, or forthcoming, in Cleaver Magazine, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Blood Orange Review, Delicate Friend, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. She’s a Poetry Editor for the Winnow magazine. She loves glitter, Ferris wheels, vintage fashion, bisexual lighting, sloths, and radical empathy. She can be found on Twitter @RobinAKinzer and at www.robinkinzer.com
