After they scanned your skull,
I took you home, and I bathed you.
I poured cupfuls of hot water over your hair.
You barely moved, but the water churned,
turned murky with suds and bubbles:
small squall waves crashed on your thighs.
I scrubbed your scalp with my fingertips,
explored the contours of your cranium,
the tiny bumps I’ve never seen, but will.
I thought of the map of your brain
the oncologist placed on the backlight,
of the white mass he touched his finger to,
knowing, even before he spoke a word,
what it said:
Here There Be Monsters.