The Cancer Port

It's known as a port, a harbor, safe house, home,

a city on the shore of my chest opened

for a section into my heart—which we say

is the place feelings live—and it's implanted,

slipped into a shallow home of substance, a knock,

a knot under the skin on the correct so

the restricted road can achieve the commercial center

of the aorta, open to any

approaching boat, needle, vessel, freight boat, emptying

its flavors, cases of dates, barrels of toxic substances,

Etoposide phosphate, amethyst, amaranth,

Cisplatin, amphorae of wine and olives.

I convey it furtively under my skin

since it is less demanding. I convey

everything under my skin, so daintily

I scarcely see, viewing from the bulwarks

the unsafe rough safe haven beneath

where products and shades of malice, packaged together

furthermore, tied, arrive, holding up to be emptied

furthermore, emptied out into an inviting nation