In the electron micrograph scans
they are lovely to look at—
enlarged, dressed in a tincture
of turquoise or purple
as playful as two exotic Cheez Doodles
or two miniature astronauts suited up
and swaddle-clumsy
floating—no gravity to worry about—
living inside us—the lucky females—
women, girls, baby-girls, female newborns,
just-made embryos
whose genetic structure comes uniquely
twinned, X chromosomal duos
doppelgängers, lady architects
unscrolling for us not one
but two chances to survive
two private eyes—one to find the culprit
the other to kill or quell
germ, virus, or injury.

*

Too perfect’s no good
particularly in the case of females:
X X is self-critical—therefore
females are genetically prone
to self-attack— pernicious
anemia, lupus, and multiple sclerosis.

*

I visualize the letters
themselves—hissing
as together they scissor the air.

Two lines joined in the middle
carefree as a girl
who has just completed a cartwheel.

I contemplate their antepenult placement
in the English alphabet—
nice, even-numbered letter 24—
maybe a goody two-shoes.

And wonder why the body chose
the letter that people unable
to read and write
use to sign their names.

A letter that deletes, cancels,
and obliterates.
One that marks a movie
unfit for young eyes.

Abbreviation for the experimental
and the unknown
or a tossed-off kiss.

Composed of two lines
lying against each other
on the diagonal
hooked at the crisscross
giving rise to chi, Christos,
and chiasmus.
.
Shape taking sound
in her arms.
Meaning in the embrace
of shape.

 

Joan Lauri Poole is a writer, animal lover, and gardener who lives in Manhattan and the Northern Catskills. She holds a master’s degree in creative writing from NYU. Her poems have appeared in Shenandoah, ducts.org, New York Quarterly, and most recently in Wild Roof Journal and First of the Month.