My mother believes, I think,
in a cellular illuminati, one that plots my downfall
first by unrelated incidents (though the dry skin winks 
at the inflamed gum) and then one by one the organs
sink into sepsis—this is the only logical progression—

and what a cabal, what an organization of trillions
in their Machiavellian mission to unseat my consciousness
and claim my body—to kill the me of me. 

One day I might not be her daughter anymore, 
just a large walking machine whose gears are turned
by nascent killer cells, working through the ranks
with precision and skipping checkpoints
as they proliferate. I might begin to grow new body parts—
new militant branches—

or simply turn up dead without telling her,
like women my age often do,

mistakenly believing myself in control.