The Biologist—for My Father

105 The Biologist—for my father Julia Deane Fishbein I study frail things through a microscope: Hippuric crystals in polarized light, Thumbprint diatoms, vagaries of blood Cells in goldfish tails. Mystified, each night I return to these small moons and glaciers Glinting rose bengal and cresyl blue Into the black barrel of my inquiry. A cell instinctively pumps through the night, Its vacuoles bailing out waters Which always seep back. It governs itself With discipline. This one quakes, shimmies To the beat of parts, breathing and feeding Under the harsh light. Tiniest of beasts, Where did you find that air of defiance? If you tell me birth is painful, I will Believe you; I have seen a cell divide, How first it quickens, ripe with a surface Tension, reeling back and forth, flustering Like a kite. Two asters spark, spindles Yank the chromosomes, then the last pinch Of cell from cell, painful and sundering. My eyes refuse to focus on the slide. A cockroach scribbles with insomnia Across the table. Stars twitch in the window. I think it will snow. I pack away all My dyes, the castor oil, the deep-welled slides And flick off the lamp. The moonlight startles Each flask, awakening thousands of crystals. Indigo flames beat against the burner. You are waiting up for me by the stove, Your eyes, glimmering like an animal's, Your arms, an ark in which our daughter sleeps. 206 I take her from your rocking and humming, And she awakens. She cries, her temples Straining with anger, her veins, blue and bright. (University of Maryland School of Medicine) ...