The cerebellum—

from Latin means little brain,
learns by repetition.

It stores the choreography

of walking, writing,

wanting.
MRI speaks in code,

metallic syntax,

bone grammar,

an alphabet of damage.
I calcify in hospitals,

a fossil under fluorescents,

stillness taught

like a second language.
There’s a measuring tape

curled in my gut,

a snake,

too tired to strike.
Clipboard, murmur,

needle—

tooth, claw, prey.
I keep naming it

with flowers,

yew, larkspur,

bonewort.
Astrocytoma—

a star-shaped cell.

I feel its root system

branching in me

like lichen,

or grief.