|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|Where Babies Come From
After reading Jean Piaget’s
When I was four I learned about geography,
knew you could find one in a tummy store,
just go in and pick out a blue boy or pink girl.
You had to wait until payday.
At five, I built a simple car
with my erector set, figured babies
were manufactured step-by-step: arms
and legs hinged by a special screw and tiny nut,
a production line to add liver, heart, and toes.
Then, inside: white bones, a choice of blood,
bright red for healthy, orange for anemic like me.
The skin came last, a stretched piecrust
vents cut for eyes, nose and mouth.
At eight, I said the egg waited in a rosy cluster,
like an Easter basket. The tadpole searched,
kept bumping the shell until a tiny hole opened
and the fishy thing scurried inside,
the lid snapping shut so no other could enter.
At ten, I learned about sperm, worried
that some were too slow to dip down to a sort
of hazy forming place. And, when the timer
went off, would it be ready? Check for doneness,
like a toothpick inserted in a cupcake!
Now, in college biology, I’m awed by cell division,
my own DNA battery pack, wonder, will they
survive tight jockeys and global warming?
I feel like a god, could people the earth, but worry
about mix-ups, that fine line between vinegar and wine.
About Jeanine Stevens