poem
Volume 20, Number 2

What Are the Chances


of being formed
in a water womb, secured
by a narrow cord

of living on a planet
with a molten core,
a surface more liquid
than soil, spinning
on a tilted axis, orbiting
a boiling star

of having new skin
every 7 years, your red
blood appearing blue
in veins

if spread end to end,
your DNA would reach
the moon


—Carol Smallwood