<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;" class="">My Proteins<div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><p style="margin: 0px 0px 1.26316em; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">They have discovered, they say,<br class="">the protein of itch—<br class="">natriuretic polypeptide b—<br class="">and that it travels its own distinct pathway<br class="">inside my spine.<br class="">As do pain, pleasure, and heat.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">A body it seems is a highway,<br class="">a cloverleaf crossing<br class="">well built, well traversed.<br class="">Some of me going north, some going south.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">Ninety percent of my cells, they have discovered,<br class="">are not my own person,<br class="">they are other beings inside me.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">As ninety-six percent of my life is not my life.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">Yet I, they say, am they—<br class="">my bacteria and yeasts,<br class="">my father and mother,<br class="">grandparents, lovers,<br class="">my drivers talking on cell phones,<br class="">my subways and bridges,<br class="">my thieves, my police<br class="">who chase my self night and day.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">My proteins, apparently also me,<br class="">fold the shirts.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">I find in this crowded metropolis<br class="">a quiet corner,<br class="">where I build of not-me Lego blocks<br class="">a bench,<br class="">pigeons, a sandwich<br class="">of rye bread, mustard, and cheese.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">It is me and is not,<br class="">the hunger<br class="">that makes the sandwich good.</p><p style="margin: 1.26316em 0px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background-color: rgb(252, 249, 249);" class="">It is not me then is,<br class="">the sandwich— <br class="">a mystery neither of us<br class="">can fold, unfold, or consume. </p><div class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Jane Hirshfield</div></div></body></html>