by Jennifer Lange

They see two cysts.  They see two cysts
again.  One cyst is as simple as Go
forth.  One cyst is complicated.
One is a toy, a repeating greeting,
hello nipping goodbye's tail.
One is two skanks at a skating
rink, two maraschino cherries
grown on a single stem.  One
is a snow globe with naught caught
within the whirling snow.  One
is a duplex.  Wingback.  Happy hour.

One is a varied heap of lilac-
colored hokum.  One is earth
and heaven.  All the earth you
could ever want and then all
the heaven.  One is a wraith, a speaking
in tongues, a flickering porno booth.
One is a miniature portrait, executed
in kidney and tooth, of Rachel Ruysch,
first among female flower painters,
haloed here in blown exotics and all
but invisible to gynecological purview.

One is a Rush
album cover, the same wrong filter.
One is by turns shame and dither.
Cap and trade.  Honk and holler.
One is an air pocket that persists.
One is a cinch to pick out in a line-up:
They cannot see you.
One does not have my name on it.
One does not have my name on it.

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