A Blog of my own. My space in space to write about what I see, read, eat, and think.
Thursday, April 07, 2016
by: Claire Wahmanholm
Lullaby with Daughter Cells
Embedded, the sleeping body is ship and shipwreck, reef, fish den,
oyster nest, once my own anemone, once a wish,
transmission of ten thousand trillion divisions, so almost infinite,
so infinitely far from it.
Beneath the skin, repetition churns
its whirls of fingerprints and strands of future selves,
constructing endless daughters, endless spindles, endless paths
into the woods.
Sleep passes for safety, but is only a curse’s deferral,
never its breaking. Your body’s already a whir, was always
an engine, gendered and generative, her from the first. All I gave
you was a pair of points. Sleep between them for as long as you can.
A point is that which has no part —Euclid, Elements, Book I