Look down through the scope of a God
and see the canvas of your creation.
Backlit in bright light
on a plastic square
it sits:
a single cell,
a bubble, an eye,
a dimpled drop of life
outlined in black.
Its shadowed centre
stares silently back
and across its soft surface
are moon crater marks
where atom-sized astronauts
have cell space-walked.
This comet, this planet:
inert and unmoving
yet born from nothing.
Now its boundaries are bulging
the cell it is growing
expanding
ballooning
but squeezed in the sides,
pinched in the middle,
and still it gets bigger
but its body is strained
and a rupture rips downwards,
tearing right through it,
and splitting two cells
slowly apart
now only a bridge
connects them together
a stem, a bond,
a hand holding on which
bursts in a last bubbled kiss
as the parent gives birth.
Two cells, two hearts,
a beginning, a start:
a child, a cancer
a mother, a monster.
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