Thaw

"I shall not lament 
the human, not yet."
                          - Dorianne Laux


A nematode wakes from forty-
six thousand years of sleep. So
long buried in permafrost, it loses
no time and straightaway starts
producing babies. Under 
a microscope, it resembles 
a figure eight unwinding 
from infinity; a silk sash 
looking to tether itself
to something more than 
the icy silence of a tomb.
There are times you feel 
like you've come back 
almost from the dead 
like that—certain you'd 
promised not to give your 
heart again, not to leave it  
in the open like a slug 
tempting a scattering
of salts. Is this a weakness,
a fatal flaw hardwired not
in the brain but in the gut?
Mornings in summer,
waiting at the train station
a few blocks from the bakery,
a warm wave of milky scent 
rolls in on the wind. You think
of the child who hasn't 
spoken to you in years 
now, the mother you couldn't
return to the earth with your 
own hands. You teeter just
a little on the brink.