My body is a poem written in my mothers’ womb
with four letters of inconsolable doom
My creative system is experiencing a lutropin overdose
unable to create poems like children beneath adipose
My eyes, I fear, can no longer pass over Darwish’s words
And feel the urge to write poems on lands they’ve taken away from two thirds
My adipocytes are growing is size
But my impact in this word is not growing likewise
But what can I do when I am a poem written in mama’s womb
with letters A, T, G, and C, like nucleotides, coding inconsolable doom