The Ball of Human Cells Speaks to the Double Helix

I first awoke tingling all of my cells popping in two, strings

of sugars and phosphors twirling to life inside me. I am

a cluster of gum balls in a glass balloon. The things

I know are small: my sugary middles, you like a drizzle of icing,

spelling out your precise design. Each whirl of the script

deceives me. Tell me will I become a daffodil and gaze

at the grasses through my yellow telescope. A fruit fly clutching

the hairs of a strawberry. Nothing makes sense to me now.

What about my long arms. What to do with my thumb.

And if I am a bundle of gum balls, then where is my sticky-

mouthed child. If I shook out your coils, counted

the times I could jump rope without tripping,

would that be the answer. If I strung you up like a ladder

bridge and climbed across. Surely I am not the child. And if I am,

then look around. Where is my gum ball machine.