Thymus, When They Come for Me

When the come for me,
it is not by accident
nor emergency. They come,
with the same precision
they use when cutting diamonds
shoring imperfections
under microscope and steady hand.

When they come for me,
no dust remains to compress
into melee or loose gems;
chips of my lobulated tissue
will not fit neatly into prongs
or a gold metal mounting.

When they come for me
the lymphocytes,
once bursting from my tender seams,
find themselves freed
on scalpel impact, impartial in her scoring,
only careful not to nick the organ
thunderous in its beating, unphased
by my departure.


When they come for me,
I am necrotic and withered,
my poisons exhausted,
tissue cavity hollowed. They wait for,
defeated, my quiet surrender
under the spotlight
and hiss of machine.