| Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-four Spring 2014 |
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| Where Babies Come From After reading Jean Piaget’s Developmental Theories. Jeanine Stevens 1. 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. 2. 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. 3. 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. 4. 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! 5. 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. |
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