Common Ancestor

by Andrea Krause

 

Behind super beefy glass, our fraternal furry twins.

We share 98.4% of our DNA, & I’m so thankful

the other 1.6% encodes only ape asses to shrivel up

like inflamed red raisins. It’s shatter-proof, but I don’t feel safe

from those eyes, incarnate pupils, uncomfortably close.

I’m hesitant to linger, like the familiar terror of running

into an estranged friend who knows all my hairy secrets.

But my toddler isn’t timid—their resemblance to the lanky

sock monkey she cuddles during naps is uncanny—

& her humanness, threadbare & brazen, is transfixed

at their mutual 3-feet height, her eyes wide & wild

with primate curiosity. There’s feces smeared

lumpy on the glass but they don’t add to it,

don’t reach to hurl any turds. I take it as a sign of good will,

maybe even endearment. It’s probably biological

to think your offspring extraordinarily benevolent,

unmenacing. They touch each other tenderly: palms

caress shoulders, fingernails rake across broad backs.

I want to infer their bond is secure from those few minutes

of fondness I witness. I want to say something about captive

devotion, but I don't have the language. Instead, I just paw

at the prism of my chromosomes, resigned, softly

stroking my daughter’s hair, same shade as my own