An atoll in my right parietal lobe

a dark lagoon surrounded by a necrotic reef

ever pushing outward, hungry for nourishment

contained by the wall of my skull.

An indigenous tumor, this

not an immigrant from some other place.

What is it origin?

An errant thought?

A pocket of hatred?

In search of its genesis I could blame myself for a million reasons

but that seems a colossal waste of time.

A fluke? A bit of wayward star stuff?

That of course is exactly what we all are, at any time, any place we probe.

I used to think that the crazed and non-discriminating growth of cancer had to be attributable to repressed and thwarted creativity, an insane and blind reaction to the body’s need to express itself, even at its own peril.

But my life has been and continues to be a tribute to creativity,

so I must kiss that theory goodbye and sit with an unanswerable question.

Glioblastoma is now part of my path

an unbidden sensei…

formidable, mysterious, surprising.

Line a pie plate with a stiff heavy crust

Fill with blackberries and bittersweet chocolate chips

Mash until it bleeds

then stir until the center  is smooth and calm, a dark lagoon

Whip stitch the crust in a long tight seam

and bake in a hot oven until the steam whistles and the juice drips

Eat without utensils,  head first,  so the pie is salted with tears.