1 in 300

To lose at science is the accident of trying,
for worse or, best, acceptable ways cells divide

then swell into heart, spleen, spine
for every satisfaction, and love also aligned

according to sense. To carry a child
inside the shaky side of feeling wild

about it, to feel the shape of him
in inches lengthen, his heartbeat a hymn

that life can be taught without knowing
a thing, with all the opinions he, growing

older, would naturally form, based, again,
on chromosomes that deal out death and gain

like just another round at a half-lit table
of weary players hoping their hand is not terrible

as mine was. Little is given. Chance
is a mindless science too accurate to withstand.

Diane Mehta
Prairie Schooner
Volume 79, Number 2
Summer 2005

Copyright © 2005 University of Nebraska Press
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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