Scientists discover a golf-ball-sized sponge in the deepest, darkest ocean areas that could cure cancer while I discover a rounded, two-centimeter lump in the bottom curve of my right breast. Eight o’clock, the doctor writes. The breast is soft and the lump is obvious; I am nursing. Its date of origin is unknown. I bite back this news when my mother calls, I avoid bringing my fingers here while I feed my daughter. "It does not have the shape of cancer," one doctor says. What is the shape of cancer? I imagine the constellation, the sign my daughter was born under. How strange that I am made of the same molecules, the same matter; and will end up back there, somewhere, spread among the stars.