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Ode to the Telomere*
by Elaine Tsiang
Not that we wane, But that we no longer wax In our race against the length Of the telomere.
Not that we are dying, But that we are not up to the birthing. We cling to old habits to preserve our old body, When only new inklings can spur us to recreate our new body.
Not that we have ever been out of harms way, Only now we have slowed the healing of our wounds. We are reduced to shadows of our former selves, Guarding the thickening walls of the coursing of our blood, When we were carefree and swept all debris before us, With the gushing in our veins.
In the crevice between the deaths and the births is our dwelling, Now that one shearing wall is crumbling, We are exposed and revealed.
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