Differentiation

Already the brow begins to knit,

the arm-buds reach for freedom from the mass,

the eyeholes deepen.

Delicate, the spine uncurls and lengthens,

ganglia and nerve by slow degrees

inhabit what we used to call the soul.

A small pulse separate on its own time,

and none of this is me,

or you, or us.

Brainwaves scatter in the blank of night,

a splay of light from

some new star.

And gently in the amniotic drowse

its face begins to shine,

a lucent stare.

Soon every feature will believe its name,

and tight fists beat across

the broken water.