Ode to the Immune System

Here, in the hollows and alleyways,
In the arched vaults of bones
A seething mass, fluted,
emanates out into the Organlands,
out into the smallest of all small spaces
into the architectural containment of our Selves;

The cellular armies wait, then roar,
Hunting, relentless
Beautiful disks and orbs — or frightful, tentacled, and beastlike;
Compact, faceted
They are exquisitely designed for the work;
The miniscule are the mighty — a tide, a weapon, a shining thing;
They observe, they stalk;
Charged with missions, tenaciously following trails into the maps of bodies
claws extended, teeth bared, tiny arrows — 
cocked, waiting for more;
listening for commands,
for the smell of illness, for the rot
for emanations, vibrations, clamping or prying
awaiting the creative comeback,
awaiting a retort from
The Thing That Came.

The armies are unafraid,
visceral
fearlessly they perish or kill;
Slippery bodies sail down red rivers,
the great, jumbled deadfall of one-celled forestlands.

In the aftermath of the carnage there is still purpose
Glowing things are there between the bodies — 
vibrant, luminous, nascent
shining with promise,
beckoning

I Love You — you, the visceral armies
You, the beloved protectors of soul
You, the creative living
The cellular brilliance

­Erin Johnson
Swarthmore

This poem was written in summer 2019. I had just traveled with my daughter through an intense medical treatment journey. In gratitude, I wanted to celebrate the value, intelligence, and complexity of the immune system, which is an invisibly functioning, essential component of everything we do. When the pandemic arrived, the poem felt like it had even greater significance. – E.J.