They say the thyroid is a butterfly, 

a fragile shape that governs all my speed now clipped, excised, a necessary need,
a promise whispered underneath the sky… 

I trace the line where metal 

made it’s MARK, 

a thin, kyloring, red smile emerging from the dark.

It is a “trophy” for a fight I’ve won, 

and yet, a tether to the life before 

I wake and check the scar, and 

check once more, 

the setting of a strange, new, 

rising sun, 

the daily pill, a ritual of grace 

to fill the empty…quiet… 

central space.