Etymologically speaking,
tumour is a derivative of the Latin verb tumēre,
which means “a swelling.”
Swelling is a rather harmless word,
a soft punishment for stumping your toe,
for carelessly hitting your forehead against a wall.
It comes, it goes,
like a minor sermon on fragility,
a bruise you’re permitted to forget.
Biologically speaking,
a tumour is an abnormal tissue mass,
cells that multiply when they should rest,
or refuse to die when their time has come.
A clinical diagnosis, yes
though it sounds suspiciously like
the architecture of generational wealth.
Practically speaking,
a tumour is the prelude to dread,
the countdown disguised as silence,
the unscripted pause before tragedy.
It is binary, unmerciful,
a coin with only two faces:
benign or malignant.
One is reprieve.
The other is the sermon of a prophet
who takes his offerings in blood and bone.
Malignant.
Such a fragile word
for a reptile nesting in marrow,
for a god without scripture
who measures worship in chemotherapy bags,
and only leaves
when there is nothing left to leave behind.
Trade words, bend grammar,
gild metaphors in gold;
none of it has ever cured a tumour.
Because tumours do not listen.
They do not bargain.
They only write their scripture
in scar tissue,
until silence is the only language left.
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