prokaryotic 

coming out in ribbons-- i tie my
DNA in bows around my wrists to
keep track of it all. a ribbon for
my mother's stone feet. a ribbon for
a pile of beer bottle caps in the 
rocking chair that was/is my father.
you assured me that there is no way that
i'm made of prokaryotic cells but
i think there's a possibility:
i'm citing the the chaos of my body
as evidence. i peel back the skin 
like the sliding open of a window &
inside everything's in knots; the DNA
in broken Celtic knots like the ones
i would draw on graph paper-- 
the Ouroboros  (these snakes biting 
their tails). singular celled-- bacteria--
beginning-- i go back to before complexity
& wriggle into the couch cushion--
ringing like a cell phone-- call me
call me & leave a message written 
in my ribbons-- a roll of 
grocery receipts-- almond milk & 
honery crisp apples-- i forget how
to eat-- what with the lack of a membrane
bound nucleus-- the membranes don't
do anything anyway-- in the end there's
not much that can keep us bound together--
i prefer this life-- we touch cell 
walls & you're so warm like playdough
kneaded all day long. come inside
& take a handful. there's too much
DNA anyway. there's enough OCD 
to arrange your freckles into rows--
there's violin strings in there too 
for the instrument i've given up 
playing over the years. i'm scared 
even though i seldom admit it. i'm scared
i'm going backwards too fast & the world
will start over & i'll be here with
the ancient cell structures-- the video
tape spitting film from his side.