Oncogenic Singularity

They call it singularity,
Certainly an aberration.
A little nodule, invisible, tiny.
A shadow, barely. It is nothing to me,
Just a minute speck in the creation.
It is a grain of sand, insignificant,
On a foreign coast, beaten by the waves,
Lost and innocent.
A little sparkle, shimmering in the sun,
Hides with billions others
In a multitude of glittering crumbs.
Little cell with its own mind,
Determined to be immortal,
Twisting reality, with skills of oncogenes,
It remains unaware of any suffering.
And dreams of expanding in surrounding space
To conquer and propagate its vigorous race.
But it does not know that in doing so
It would completely destroy its universe.
In the final battle, there can only be
One survivor. And it will be me.




Lemon Tree

I have a lemon tree in my house.
It is not very big,
Tiny.
It is surviving in its little pot,
Extending its arms in front of the window,
Looking at the snow.
Once in a while it gets covered with flowers,
White and long with a hint of pink.
Their fragrance fills the living room
With tropical sands,
Luscious gardens and burning winds.
Their rustle mimics the songs of the veiled women,
In their blue cloth, hiding pale eyes and henna hair,
Floating by the gates of burned red bricks
In the old city of Casablanca.
The petals soon get caught in a storm,
And leave behind little shiny green pearls,
Slippery of sweet oil.
It takes weeks and they grow slowly
Into the dark yellow of the ripe fruit.
Sweetness fills my room again,
Stronger and invading,
Like the hot summer of blazed plains,
Releasing its scents in the shimmering night.
The tree bends and aches, until I deliver it
From its painful load.
Their skin is soft and thin,
Sienna sunshine perfume rubs on my hands.
Brown wrinkled skin, works the clay,
Knots the wool, pulls the rough ropes
Of water wells, beats drums and picks up
Rich lemons in a basket.
Their flesh is like a dying gold sunset,
Dripping with sour dew, intoxicating
Of powerful essences.
Lightheaded, I sink in their voluptuous grip
And squeeze the juices slowly with wonder
In my hot dark tea.

Christine Rogers is a doctor in biomedical research, who, as an exercise in the English language (being a French native), started to write poetry.

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