CYNTHIA MARIE HOFFMAN

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.