A Billion Billion In the dish, a dozen embryos are floating with the stars like Kubrick's wide-eyed baby; it's just them and everything, little white holes bursting through far away, a light-year's distance. We keep them spaced by cm's to avoid contamination. They float alone and fetal and although dying, curl even tighter – when I touch them with latex fingers they spiral away from me like galaxies. I call this one Jeff -- he's purple and drips as I pick him out with a piece of wax paper. The second equation calls for blood, so Jeff goes in the blender, and fictitious forces spread his heavy cells from small. Lymphocytes are thick like custard on the outer edge of the centrifuge. At the bottom of the test tube nebulas of bone, brain, heart swirl in the vacuum of his one-month body, and pouring out the waste, I dream of every element that was in him exploding once from stars that terminated somewhere a billion billion miles away.
© Joe Hickey