I love medical research. I find the body endlessly fascinating even when I don’t understand all the terminology. It’s like learning a foreign language. Equally fascinating for me is what isn’t known: the body is a complex system far beyond any computer models they’ve come up with.

It’s also mysterious.

I know people whose bodies just work. They glide through their days. Okay, so they’re young. But I know others, including young ones, whose brains are wired wrong or whose lungs grow spots. And then there’s mine, which suffers fierce electrical storms. Among other things.

So the body can be a hard place. That’s the subject of today’s poem.

First draft:

Grey Fog

The more I learn the more
I am amazed the body works
at all. Add spare parts
to a car and it will
go wrong, the fridges
of grandma showing what
complexity adds to a repair
bill. They pale beside
our genes, spliced from
mom and dad, zygote
and sperm containing seeds
so small, an oak couldn’t find
its way. And yet we do,
multiplication breeding kidneys,
fingers, brain, a heart that must
stand a lifetime. Seems
absurd, that in that pink
pulsing mix is stamp-collecting,
the deep desire for a violinist’s
bow, the need to know
how an engine ticks, and why
we are here, but it is. DNA splices
new combo packages, sans choice,
sheer luck of the bloody draw whether
schizo will be spat in your hat
or honours laid with crystal.
If the photocopier jams as you
form, expect mutations, a stutter
stretching across pages, or worse,
an irregular blotch where you needed
to breathe, where your mind wanted
to think, where a valve would have formed
unblemished. It’s a miracle so many
of us live, some clearly marked
damaged on our labels, some
with tears in our hidden
seams.  We’re not alone. There is
no perfect flower, no bush
without a mark. Nature
is not perfect.

When I sat down to edit this, I was bewildered by the title. I guess I was obeying my poem-a-day rule of writing down the first thing that came into my head. Yeah, I have no idea where ‘grey fog’ came from either.

It didn’t take me long to choose ‘Speckled Leaves,’ since I wanted a title that foreshadowed the ending. Then I had to do some basic research since my memory is not my best part (though I do have lovely ankles). Zygote? Nope, that’s not what the mama egg is called. But once I found out the zygote is the combination of ovum and sperm, I liked it better, so in it stayed.

My big problem with editing this poem was choosing examples. Which issues slid in most cleanly? Which talents worked? Stamp collecting showed up in the first draft but is so rare these days, I decided to replace it. And much as I love philosophy, I couldn’t find a way to make it work—not philosophy’s failing, it just means I didn’t work hard enough.

Instead, I went for a more contemporary example (time to stop stale-dating myself) and added in what is to me, an astonishing predisposition towards activism that some have (thank heavens).

Then I tightened the poem, each draft allowing me to see waffling phrases more clearly. And of course, I read the poem out loud to myself, so I could hear how the words sounded together. I know it can seem boring to go back over and over your work this way but I’ve found it’s the only route to singing. And I want my work to sing.

Current final version:

Speckled Leaves

The more I learn the more
I am amazed the body works.
Add spare parts to a car
and it goes wrong, grandma’s fridge
showing what complexity adds
to a repair bill. Both pale
beside our genes, that combo
spliced from mom and dad, zygote
containing seeds so small, an oak
couldn’t find its way. And yet we do,
multiplication breeding kidneys,
fingers, brain, a heart that must
last a lifetime. Absurd
that in that pink pulsing mix lies
web design, a violinist’s bow, the need
to right what isn’t known, or how to rev
an engine’s guts. DNA is sheer luck
of the bloody draw, no choice
whether schizo will be spat or honours
laid with crystal. Jam the photocopier
and leave a stutter stretching
across pages, a blotch where you need
to breathe, where a valve would form
unblemished. It’s a miracle
so many of us live, some marked
damaged on our labels, some with tears
in hidden seams. Small consolation:
there is no perfect flower,
no bush without a mark.

I was thinking of so many when I wrote this and I dedicate the poem to them, especially I and N.