Monday, August 15, 2011

The Scientist (I)

It mocks me,
Eyes colder than liquid nitrogen,
Nothing left kindled in its stare;
I grow tired of standing on the shoulders of men
Who turned out to be dwarfs and not giants,
On tiptoes, buoyed by significant correlations,
I turn a sharp monotone of phrase
But cannot reach, cannot breach at
All, just to see the face of the one
Who brings me no peace,
Just pieces and particles that bear no names,
The type of work that drives on me,
Inspires madness and sadness and laughter,
The sound of spinning and grinding
And cutting and binding

Cell Culture

An unspecified suspension
(Pink, sometimes sallow)
Always elicits his attention
(Strident, never shallow)

A conical kind of life
(Sustained quality, not size)
Passages between his eyes
(Downward bent and filtered)

We can’t see them, he says,
I believe they are there.

Dissection (II)

Her first cut. Dull.
But penetrating the skin
So soft and so easily sliced
The tiny elastic tendrils, the embrace.

She wields the blade. Quivering
Cadaver carved into skin and flesh
Never again one tissue, one body,
One person.

Her knife fails against the yellow sheath,
Webbed by blue and red, vasculature once.
Beautiful work. Intimacy apparent in
Her face, taut with satisfaction.

She can no longer recognize him or hate him for who he was.