LITURGY FOR A QUIET FRIDAY
Let us begin with the cell.
Let us begin with the smallest room we were ever given.
Reader: The nucleus holds.
Response: The nucleus holds.
Reader: The waiting room holds.
Response: The waiting room holds.
Reader: The parking lot holds nine hundred and sixty-eight sets of footsteps
and not one of them is yours yet.
Response: Not yet. Not yet.
Let us name what is hidden:
Lou, threaded into the helix.
Jared, threaded into the helix.
A toy on the floor no larger than a chromosome.
A car with child seats and the ghosts of scattered things.
Reader: Dr. Wang's four o'clock floats in the upper right corner like a star.
Response: We have seen it. We are not afraid.
Reader: The clouds are 75% and the light is 7:53 PM amber
and the body is mostly empty space
and the building is mostly empty space
and the day passed without incident.
Response: Without incident. Without incident.
Let us end with the cell.
Let us end where the membrane becomes the floor tile
becomes the cloud formation
becomes the thing we cannot name
that holds Lou and Jared
in its smallest, brightest room.
Reader: The nucleus holds.
Response: It holds. It holds. It holds.
A cell. A chair. A toy smaller than a chromosome.Names stitched into mitochondria like a secret.The censor saw something. We still don't know what.Perhaps the nucleus was too intimate.Perhaps the gatekeeper has never waited in a room like that.
