A Tongue in the Mouth of the Dying

Mr. G’s Collection

MR . G’S COLLECTION In the CT scan, the tripas look like snakes and one kidney dwarfs its once identical twin. I see the lump, a wing bud, between his spine and shoulder: this is not the cancer, says the doctor: But tissue. A growth: Manteca: Fat. Pregnant back full of children. Collection of wounds, skinned over like a pie. The many-cheated deaths: water for drowning, horse hooves, guns, flipped up pick-ups, booze to fill a young man’s veins: flask. Cask. All of it held up there: burden. World on his shoulder. A monkey. Nest of wrongs, of worms. A blister. Meatloaf. Coffee hardened to a brick. Soap. Cake. A womb in which to grow watermelon. A pot of beans. A dozen tamales. He’ll tell you it’s a bag of money. 45 There, says the doctor, pointing to what looks like the apple core we threw off the jetties in the Corpus Christi Bay when I was four, bobbing in grandpa’s stomach with each breath he takes: there’s the cancer. 46 ...