Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night with a clot of belladonna paste and baby teeth, a talking wound in my idiopathic breast. Lactating under the cover of raw snow, the red shirt locks its claws into my flesh, spares the nipple its fearful embrace of the body. Textbooks can induce a peripheral black patch of gangrene, with lesions in the upper medial portion of discomfort. A painless lump falls and damages the surgeon—how things move sometimes, mimicking the peau d’orange skin of history. I prescribe an ointment of bone formation and dermal radiation. I have tried it myself. A pathologist arises in the tissue.