You can see right through it -
each swell and shrink,
the rubbery gulp of oxygen,
the veins like threads in gone-off milk,
barely below the pulsing skin.
It's not like the old one,
opaque and lacquered,
veiled.
They move it to a bigger jar.
Soft stubs of fingers touch themselves.
It may be growing hair, and things
that will be teeth.
Making good progress is what they say.
Wouldn't I like to wait at home?
I sit behind it, where I will not see
the opening mouth, the eyelashes.
You must be very pleased.
We'll leave you now.
I hear it whispering its name,
my own voice answering.
The lid is opened.
I climb inside.
January 2003
