One day I will wrinkle
like a linen suit
my flesh will relax
sag and shake when I move.
My bones will fold
and snap
like peanut brittle.
And my words will slur
the corner of my mouth
will pool with saliva.
What then?
The year of the poem is finished, now it is the year for the protocol! Read about the misadventures of a plant scientist trying to make sense of photorespiration one mutant at a time.
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