Science can define how new life is formed,
the process by which and mother and father’s
cells converge, determine the likelihood
she will inherit his eyes or have her
laugh. Even anthropology teaches
us that we embody the history
of our own making. Biology can
hypothesize what makes each human so
similar, yet distinct from the other.
Professors teach that cells can replicate
independently, build life. That the term
“cell” is derived from the Latin, meaning
“small rooms,” and human beings have over
100 trillion of them to hide their secrets in,
like a never-to-be-worn wedding dress
suspended in a closet, his bloody
clothes tucked into ceiling tiles, my body
buried in a basement wall cavity–
upside-down, bra pushed up, panties pushed down,
his seed still lingering on the edges.
Science can even estimate how long
it would have taken for my broken jaw
and collarbone to heal had I survived,
how long he squeezed my throat before my
vision pinholed and my windpipe caved. The
only question they can’t answer is Why?
Melissa Tyndall is a writer, professor, and Supernatural fangirl. The Best New Poets 2015 nominee’s poems and award-winning articles have appeared in Number One, Prism international, Red Mud Review, Words + Images, Sixfold, Gamut, and various newspapers.