The Scientist Poem

This is a poem
written to the scientist,
asking questions about every molecule and nebula,
about things we cannot see.
They dictate these things,
make us go to labs try and prove it.
Eighty-five differentiated kinds of cells within the body.
It’s strange, almost perverse,
that prokaryotic and eukaryotic cells filled with cytoplasm
contain little organelles that work to keep the cell alive,
just as our organs do us so to speak.
Lysosomes, ribosomes, golgi bodies,,
all work in a labyrinth of membranes,
consisting of a double layer of phospholipids and other lipids,
forming flattened sacs and tubes that segregate the contents
from each other,
the Labyrinth of Minos.

I have to take their candor word
there are chromosomes
consisting of DNA
which wrap around protein macromolecules
and a few other things,
slammed into a nucleus.
Everything consists of these nuclei,
with their chromies and maps,
their messenger, RNA.
So these DNAs are the foremen of the construction of an organism.
Deep in the alleles of the chromosome they work long hours,
so that all cells and DNAs can live in kyosei (Japanese meaning ‘symbiosis’).

I have to take on faith
that these things are true,
living,
yet they bray me with their codex.

You are the worshiper of the god of mechanism,
and the dance of the embryo.
With the Oocyte of Mary laid on a cold table
soaking in chemicals of static.
It makes me realize
the gods are scientists,
and this planet just an experiment.
I wonder if we are the control
or some mutant strand,
somewhere off the genetic drift.