Next week they are splicing from my most sacred of space, testing the cells there to see what took place. What’s been spoiled by not-enough-love from the one who had promised me, all others above. To have and to hold, to respect, and to care, but nearly, not ever, going in there. Which led to those Wednesdays (two dollars per hour) when I gave him permission to take from my flower, to feed me, and water where blossoms would grow, but hardly, not ever, my husband would go. And so I said yes, even though I knew better, to prodding and thrusting, (the table getting wetter) knowing that soon, someday, there’d be prices to pay, for my quarterly, sinister, romps in the hay. And now these years later, the scalpel I’ll face, as I calmly confront the consequence of my disgrace. Because every misdeed, every heeded intention led me right here, exactly, no need to mention. On Tuesday, I’ll learn just how dearly I’ve paid, for deathly, bad decisions, made in those desperate days.