Ode to Vocal Cords

The ritual is the same every day:

parting tissues 

like a hunter parting reeds,

taking aim

and, if nature favors,

the surety and satisfaction of hitting one's mark.

Yet no two rituals are the same;

the mark can be elusive, 

or for all intents and purposes

 impossible.

I see it now: a frontier in time and space;

a narrow gate;

doorway between life and death,

between speech (or song) and silence;

the borders between human and other,

between "evolved" and "creature,"

incarnate in its vertical rims.

Every day I gaze upon

these Pillars of Hercules,

a cipher of our humanity,

evidence of our forward step:

the larynx low, fixed in descent

from its primal place 

in infancy and antiquity,

genetic words made flesh 

as flesh that - miracle of miracles -

makes words.

Words.  More than vowels,

howls, and primeval cries.

A voice - a voice is not enough,

nor a larynx far descended;

Cervus elaphus has that, and even

Phascolarctos cinereus.

Homo sapiens has found

that finely crafted, interwoven

movements, stops, and sounds

can place into our worldly roil

the measured contents of our thoughts.

A larynx powered by the mind:

portal to poetry, language, and song.

The hunt continues:

My daily ritual enacts 

an ancient yearning to understand

who we are, what gives us life,

and in what hidden places

our secrets can be found.

And so I snap my blade into place

and begin again.

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This attempt at a poem was written in response to an invitation from Moneduloides to "step outside of the box" of what we usually write and submit a post for the December 30 edition of Grand Rounds, whose theme is "at the interface of evolution and medicine," in honor of the upcoming bicentenary of Darwin's birth and the 150th anniversary of the publication of On the Origin of Species.  Please check out this fascinating latest edition of Grand Rounds culled by brilliant blogger Moneduloides.