Mostly low on my List of Parts
in Danger of Going Bad, except
for that moment when the specialist
takes them in his hands while we avoid
eye contact and he feels the ligatures
for lumps. For those seconds he is perhaps
an agent of the fates, set to rip these appendages
from my trunk, speaking in metaphor,
and deliver a death sentence couched
in much immediate pain.
Who is this intruder? my balls ask,
suddenly alarmed but trying to remain calm,
and what secret knowledge is he stealing?
Then the fright passes and my balls go back
to their easy perch, just along for the ride,
pretending they’re invincible and unexposed,
relieved to be left alone to meditate and nap
still near the bottom of the List of Parts
in Danger of Going Bad, far down
from brain and heart and pancreas,
irradiated skin, city-smudged lungs,
arthritic joints, and aging spine.