Mendel
Bashful - Resilient - Intelligent
Pet Information
Pet Name: Mendel
Owner: Metaphor
Theme / Type: Overgrowth Phelocan
Born: November 23, 2011
Gender: Male
Mood: Mad
MisticPal Name: Generation 1
MisticPal Age: 4720 Days
Battle Portal Stats
Hit Points: 3 / 3
Strength: 1
Defense: 1
Speed: 3
Intellect: 6
Misticpower: 1
Battles Won: 0
Battles Lost: 0
| Attached Weapons | |
Books Read
Books Read: 1/373 [ View Books ]
1. Love Note in a Bottle
Exotic Foods Eaten
Foods Eaten: 0/1254 [ View Foods ]
Karyotype
I wanted to climb
to the top of my family tree
and discover what kind of fruit
grows up there.
If there were apples, I vowed
to toss at least six back down to earth,
enough to feed the family and then some.
If it was barren, I promised to turn to my own womb
for springtime some day.
Back then, the wind was in everyone's will
so I learned to hold tight to every campfire my father started.
Back then, gravity had hunger pains in its eyes.
If it had the energy,
it would have taught me how to fly
while I was still feather light.
In reality, I was just Zacchaeus
before he climbed the sycamore.
I hid from God, hoping
to catch a glimpse of him in creation through underbrush,
something I imagined wasn't much more difficult
than watching Santa construct a toy train track
around an unlit Christmas tree.
I wanted to know that he put his catharsis
into every first cry, his fatherhood
into each color eyes can come in,
his crucifixion into final breaths.
Then my sister was born.
I was too afraid to hold her as a baby.
I left all my dolls
in the safety of a toy box.
---
Sometimes the laws of inheritance work best
in whispers.
It takes patience to stay inside the lines
of each chromosome.
Maybe that's why I finally forgave God
for not allowing me to listen in as he made her.
He was the first man to tell me that light breezes inherit
everything from the summer as a voice,
wind chimes, my breath that takes my birthday candles' flames,
the sign language of the clouds on the days the sun has laryngitis.
Back then, the sun got laryngitis often
from sharing too many secrets with me.
I asked my friend why she was still an only child,
she told me that her mother was still praying
because she hadn't been blessed yet.
At day camp, there were two brothers,
one whose head was always facing the ground,
the other who always had the sun in his eyes,
around the irises, patchy and white.
He'd wander the playground with a Dr. Seuss book, upside down.
One day, we plotted to hide his copy of Green Eggs and Ham.
We wanted to hear his cry start up, low and broken before there could even be tears.
We wanted to bask in the ways he was nothing like his brother.
Now, I want to pour over his karyotype.
I want to find the trinity in his trisomy.
There's a father in his eyes, there's
a brother in his blood, there's a spirit
stretching past his growth
and blowing all around him
because nobody really inherits the wind.
We all just take our traits like a tempest,
born like storms that will stop raging once
we know our names.
---
Today, I spotted God in the sandbox
from the treetop.
He had just surrendered to a gang
of bullies with back muscles taut
as though they had just shed wings.
He's not making his son.
He's not making a name for himself.
This is pretend-play creation dust,
catharsis while he can still cry
with the intentions of just a child
and I am going to watch him grow
until his knuckles bleed and
I see footprints through him.
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