Universe in my Uterus

A famous poet once conjured the world in a grain of sand.

My doctor has conjured the universe in my uterus.

No worn cliché: Menses, Seed, Life, Fetus

but a fibroidal White Dwarf, the echo of what was once a star.

A cystic degenerating black hole

collapsing in upon itself

as any self-respecting dying growth should.

On my bad days

(when my mind unhitches ‘benign’ from 'growth'),

I taste the dark thickness,

see the thick darkness,

feel the cobwebs cluttering the crevices

where this complicated tissue has insinuated itself.

On my good days

(when hypochondriacal whispers of gangrene are muted),

I sense Wonder, even Order

on the grandest scale.

Having outgrown its blood supply

this grapefruit-sized orb embedded in my uterine wall

has become tangerine & liquid- centered

a liquor-filled truffle going supervnova.

Having never given birth to a child

I wonder now

if my womb will be home instead

to any variety of celestial bodies:

Nebula, Oort Clouds, the Kuiper Belt, perhaps even a Red Giant

Left with humbler tools

than God who made the Universe or

my physician with her extensive technology,

on my whimsical days

I conjure only a red garden gnome: hollow friendly innocuous