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
