margolove
If the genome is an instruction book, its expression is pure poetry. Bases link together in chemical commands, and out of them pour eyes, lips, hands, feet, skin. We stir. We flex. There is, alas for us, no mandate in our human cells to bring forth feathers kissing bone, and so we do not fly—except, perhaps, in our three hundred million-year-old memory.
how we spread our wings when joy presses/ that scripted bone button, still written there, / instructions between the shoulder-blades -/ fossil-wings, de-feathered stumps, reflexive/ sprouting, though there is nothing to see;/ except maybe on summer backs of naked/ children playing.
~ From The Human Genome: Poems on the Book of Life, Gillian K. Ferguson.
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