Before the Body

Katie Condon

It appears to be the hours before dawn,
            though there is no such thing yet as time.

Beauty also is unaccounted for.
            The mist is merely what it is: water

too weightless or wantless to fall.
            Soon, cells wound up on the spool

will be spun into a body that, when it speaks,
            only speaks in code. Soon, where

there was no mystery there will be mystery
            in abundance. Where there once was pasture,

a pancreas, a spleen. Crows looming each
            on a fence post now roost on a trellis

of cartilage, memory’s liquid weight clouding
            the amygdala. Here, before

muscle, before blood, there is nothing
            worth fearing. There is nothing here

but the stars drifting through their orchard
            like embryos descending blindly

toward their wombs.