Sunday Poems 62: Our oldest ancestor

Earlier this week I was intending on writing about my attempts to sleep more. Important news came out this week however, which I want to draw attention to: the announcement of the discovery of saccorhytus coronarius. Saccorhytus is a creature which lived 540 million years ago, and for reasons I don't understand, is considered an important precursor to the development of homo sapiens sapiens. Significant!

Its physical characteristics made it an irresistible target for science journalists. The following are some examples of headlines from this week:

  • "How human beings evolved from this disgusting creature" -New York Post

  • "Your oldest ancestor was a sack-like creature with no anus" -Wired

  • "Your oldest ancestor was really weird and had a big mouth" -Live Mint

  • "Pinhead-sized sea creature was a bag with a mouth" -Science News

  • "A huge mouth and no anus - this could be our earliest known ancestor" -The Guardian

  • "Tiny, 540-Million-Year-Old Human Ancestor Didn't Have an Anus" -Live Science

  • "Human forebear a bag-like beast with no anus: study" -AFP

  • "Lab notes: all mouth (but no anus) - a gobby week for science" -The Guardian

Sometimes it's important to smile when there's a lot to not be smiling about.

Sundays are good days to meet up with someone you haven’t seen in a while. Maybe somewhere you haven't been in a while. You make plans late at night. You write them down when you get home. It can't come quickly enough.

Below is a poem. Consider passing it on to someone who might enjoy it. As always, I’m here if you need to chat. Sunday Poems continues to be supported by a few generous backers over on Patreon. If you have an extra dollar or two a month and you appreciate reading these, please consider becoming a Patreon backer, so that I can dedicate more time to writing on this blog. Have a good week, everybody. You can do it.


1919

a glowing, cold fear drops over the zone
picking which limbs will carry us farthest
playing speeches from condenser microphones

another song, making something
from another thing.

the room gets louder with time
and it starts to shake.

you see the frame peek through the flesh.

you rolled out of bed in a nightmare
the radio alarm going
the only time you hear the radio.

a flickering light always seven inches from your face
trying to sit up straight

noticing a problem money won’t solve.


Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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