Zygotes, Hatched and Delivered

They show us a portrait
of four mystic cells.
In a sterile room,
I am the showcase,
the Diva in blue.

But we’re all blue
with blue pants and
blue shirts and blue
shower caps–
antiseptic, joyless creatures.

You sit there harboring regrets
as a man’s gloved hands shake
between my thighs.
I squirm and bite, taste
sharp, metallic edges.

Count pressures
in hidden places.

A boy-faced man mutters
fine, fine…
I grab your hand,
the only skin on skin
in the room.

I am lukewarm water and wood,
a taut wire of entrails
between skyscrapers.
I am a reservoir
swallowing trees,
a deluge on a forgotten town.

Then, we see them.
Pixels on the screen.
A flash of ethereal white.

Science bursts.
Perfect, someone says.
Perfect.