BIOPSY - Alli Marshall

I won’t talk about the procedure, but instead about the company of women. The press and surround of them, the practiced lightness of their voices, eyes over surgical masks telepathing concern. Concern, and the other thing: The holding down, the hemming in. 

 There are three of them and me, so we’re the four directions. I’m the air of the east, held aloft, wanting to float away to the peeling image of a tree canopy on the ceiling. 

 I’m also the sacrifice, splayed, under gaze and gown and probe.

 * * *

In the kitchen, women move as a dance. An ebb and flow of together and apart. Hands finding a rhythm, bodies fitting in the space together. Getting the thing done. 

There were four of us from four continents. The common language was my language so I said the least. Felt them flock around me asking, “How can I help?” “Where does this go?” Many hands make light work.

Many hands make lightwork. Make the light work.

On its own, light just is. A presence, a force with no pressure, no agenda. 

 * * *

In the procedure room, the overhead light is a punishment. There’s a camera gazing into the cavity of my body and a small light inside me. I’m a candle. No amount of dark can quench a single flame — this is a thing someone said, but it seems doubtful. 

I could snuff the miniature bulb by slamming shut my thighs. Engulf the light, be the shrouding dark. The work of women is to know when to encourage the frail dawn and when to feed the fullness of midnight. Be publicly always on the side of the light; serve darkness in silence and secret.

We are the four directions. Someone is Fire, someone Water, someone Earth. Each of the women seems earthy to me. Grounded, firm, holding me against the table. Holding me with only glancing touches, kind words. “You’re doing great.” I’m doing nothing but being held.

 Earth, fire, water. Earth absorbs water, water quenches fire, fire burns earth. 

Our bodies scorch other bodies. I’m a field of scars. Isn’t that why I’m in the room, in the company of women — this circle that is its own entity? How I’ve been living has planted this inside me and now I reap what has been sown. I made my bed and now I sleep in it. But my sleep has been fine and my crops are well watered. I’m an inferno, a deep well. I wonder if the women see this in me — that I’m more than 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. That I’m more than blood and rib and regret.

 * * *

At the boat launch, there are four of us. The bathrooms are locked so we instinctively take turns — one squatting to pee in the woods and the others guarding the path. There are innate wisdoms that we carry, but which only work when we come together. Protect the nursing mothers, the young girls, the old ladies. Gather around them like a human wall in their time of need. We don’t do this as often as we should, but when we do, we’re a barricade. A force. The holding down, the hemming in. 

* * *

In a circle of friends, I am the air. I take in information, I float above the chatter. I monitor the weather and watch for storms.

 * * *

In the procedure room, I’m not afraid of the pain. “You’ll feel a pinch,” says the doctor. “You might feel some pressure.” Everything is pressure, and we move through it. Every break, every bruise, every crushing disappointment. We pick up and dust off and move on. I want to be the earth, composting and gestating, but I’ve never been that comfortable with guts and gore. With messiness. With truth. 

I want to gestate a diamond from the pressure; I want to grow a garden of quartz points within my caverns.

 * * *

In a circle of friends, I say the invocation of the east and let the wind devour my candle. I allow ash from the bonfire to land in my hair and on my clothes. This once I allow myself to be smudged and marked and smoke-scented. I allow.

* * *

In the procedure room, after the circle is broken. I clean my own blood with a wet wipe and dress myself, again, in clothes of the world I came in from. But I’ll return to the world through a different door. Every entry and exit is a passage, even if we don’t recognize it as such. 

* * *

Every group of women is a circle, a surrounding. An ebb and flow of together and apart. Hands finding a rhythm, bodies fitting into the space together. Getting the thing done.

This is imperfect work, this work of many hands. But it’s necessary. 

Alli Marshall is a poet, performer, writer, editor, film maker and creative community builder. She’s interested in moving writing beyond the page, seeking the golden in the mundane, finding the intersection of art and social justice, and reconnecting with mythology — both ancient and modern. She recently released her spoken-word mixtape, “Bury the pennies and hoard the rain,” on Bandcamp.com.