Writing from the stemistry lab
A scientist’s confession
by Stevie Ronnie
Some nights, when the clones
have hung their lab coats
and climbed into their particular cars,
I, janitor-late in my thin skirt
and woolen tights, heave the freezer lid,
remove the racks of babbling tubes
and line the casket with velvet.
My nape hairs stiffen.
My shoulders glow like blue flames.
Hitching each leg carefully,
I climb inside and lower
myself by my arms to lie
with my hands doved to my chest –
each cloud of breath
fixes me inside this metal overcoat,
turned and on.