The doctor found a tooth
inside the mass they removed from my abdomen—
a fully formed adult molar,
growing where no tooth should be.
Then a second one, and a third,
and something that resembled a fingernail,
and tissue that under magnification
showed the structure of a retina.
A teratoma, the surgeon said.
Your twin, absorbed in utero.
Cells that were supposed to be a person
incorporated into your body instead.
The mass grew back in three weeks,
larger this time, more organized.
The X-ray showed a jawbone forming
around the teeth that had already appeared.
A hand with five fingers
curled inside my peritoneum,
nails growing, knuckles articulating,
practicing for a grip.
The surgeon refused a second operation.
Said the tissue was too integrated,
too entangled with his own systems—
cutting it out would mean cutting him apart.
I can feel it at night:
a second heartbeat in my belly,
a small hand pressing outward
against the wall of muscle and fat.
It is building itself
out of everything I eat,
every protein, every mineral
diverted to the construction project.
And the face that is forming
in the dark interior of my body
has my features,
but arranged with the certainty
of something that was here first
and intends to finish
what was interrupted.