Moriah Erickson

M o r i a h  E r i c k s o n

Curie’s Lab

Petri dishes ripe with agar,

the birdlike rattle of test tubes, glass on glass

chatter in this stark room.

I am the wish of hypothesis,

unfolding weathered wings, truth

on fiction’s time.

The unfurling lineup breeds bacterium,

protozoa, and molds blessed

and ready to be your cure.

Ultrasound (a glympse)

of ink,

the hymn of glossy squid

in unrequited

silence.

quiet is comforted

in whalesongs

or rattle

of any turning fin.

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