Writing from the stemistry lab
invitro
by Marilyn Longstaff
she sees the men in white coats, the goggles,
the pipettes, the lines of petri dishes,
sees the white formica surfaces,
the off-white ceiling tiles,
yellowing-white fluorescent lights,
the fly hit the neon-purple fly-machine,
sees the cold; feels the cold, the clinical
exposed division, the light, the hard light;
the smells; she smells anti-bacterial spray,
deodorized underarms, detol, feels the shudder
as someone knocks the bench, hears the chink
of glass on glass coming together, throat clearing,
whispering, feels herself drying out inside lubricating solution,
like liver on a butcher’s slab
insitu
Slipping in the dark deep slippery inner-tube
that will inflate if you can find a foothold,
like trying to anchor your boat in custard —
and you have to do it. Fertilized or not, if you fail,
you’ll be expelled in thick blood rush. But where
can you find the energy you need for multiplication?
The stench of offal overwhelming, and no light
on the subject. You are a blind microscopic Tardis,
oozing in blood-hot swamp. If you make it,
it will be a bloody miracle.