I think every connection leaves a hue on your brain,
like those left by stubby Crayola-marker-fingers groping white printer paper.
I think every attraction concocts a chemical reaction
that re-assembles my gray matter atom by atom.
We all have the genes we’re blueprinted with, but
our environment sends a dry-erase marker to highlight some and rub out others.
The giraffe, then, does evolve a longer neck by stretching,
just as I stretched towards you,
I still feel the strain in my back,
despite what my DNA says.
I picture my brain as a hunk of meat simmering in a bone pot,
and my loose wrist douses it in the chemicals of infatuations.
Sometimes it’s just a few drops, like food coloring.
Sometimes, it’s to marinate.
I strain out my brain to eat and
rinse twice. It still tastes like everyone I’ve ever stared at.
**Another science-y poem with references to epigenetics and the theories of Lamarck. After thinking about it though, the Lamarck stuff doesn’t perfectly make sense here. I call it artistic freedom. Give me a shout in the comments section if you want something explained!