Who knew this little bit of spillage
contained multitudes of what we all
boil down to? Microorganisms
swim a surface the wet silver
of Poseidon’s eyes. Spiralized lines,
pulsing globules, tiny sacs filled with aspic.
Obscenely, you can see right through
them, sometimes down to their nuclei.
They come in lovely colors.
Is this natural or has the scientist
who slid their slide under the microscope
stained them orange, ochre and blue
for better viewing? Their outlines
waver like hand-drawn cartoons.
They resemble party favors,
tiny offspring of a bubble cluster
and the plankton alphabet.
Why, then, have I been so afraid
of what I am made of breaking down
into constituent parts, of one day
rejoining this infinitesimal assembly,
of becoming an orgy of particles
too (beautiful and) numerous to count?
from Valley Voices