Apoptosis

Human cells die in one of two ways.
There is necrosis--where the cell bursts

in response to injury or chemical attack in a toxic

cascade, littering fragments in its fluid wake

that become Alzheimic plaques or scar tissue

trapping space in immobile parenthesis--

and apoptosis. From Greek 'apo'--off, from, (without,)

and 'ptosis,' or falling, specifically in the way

leaves do from trees, like scabbed and loosened tissue

bordering old cuts: fifty billion cells a day burst

in the adult body, tiny supernovas, to wake

open-mouthed sister-cells that recycle the non-toxic

apoptotic debris. This programmed toxicity

is woven into the cell's genetic fateline, destined parenthesis,

funerary catalyst for the waking

of foetal hands into separated fingers, the way

lilies fall open and spread in the sun. These bursts

scatter the seminal stardust of new tissue.

Similarly, of course, self. A trillion cells form the tissue

that folds into an adult body, creasing to allow every toxic,

violent gesture, each uncertain thought, before it bursts

with a fragility that passes undetected, a parenthesis

lasting two thousand days, and falls away.

This can change what it means to wake

to recognize the gritted eyes waiting

in the mirror above the sink, to reuse a tissue,

to love a human who will be new in most ways

within six years. Suicide becomes the killing of another, less toxic

possibility, perhaps unbound, less prone to closed parenthesis.

In a way, every contract bursts;

galaxies hang suspended in shifting body-shapes, bursting

at constant rates, silent, infinite, to wake

fresh constellations. The hugging grip of parenthesis

hardens into frames for dead thoughts lost beneath new tissue

burgeoning, unburdening, rinsing away the toxic

after-taste of time. This is the way

the past bursts, membranous, tissue-

thin, a closed-casket wake for toxic

clinging parenthesis, a forced birth of unknown ways.