Though we all had to come into this life
By a conception unimmaculate,
And grow as foeti at the ordained rate,
And suck the teat or rubber substitute,
And multiply and bloom till our pubescence
And pass through middle age into senescence,
We differentiated too.

  I am American, you Algerian.
  She’s from Ceylon, and he’s from Paraguay.
  My father was a watchman, yours a priest,
  His a ventriloquist, hers a thief.
  And I became a poet, you a clerk,
  He a chemist, she an acrobat.
  Time, instead of equalizing us,
  Brings out our individuality.

Swedenborg said the differences persist.
There is a sociology in heaven, too,
And certainly one in hell.
Think of high-hatted spirits snubbing us,
Or introverted loners pouting on their clouds,
Melodramatic children bodiless
Nagging their parents for ambrosia,
Or kind old ladies without flesh or bone
Knitting Platonic sweaters in the air.
Perhaps we’ll find things most familiar there.
And though we have to die a common death,
That’s no more of a terminus than being born.
As the commuters at Grand Central file out
And fan into ten thousand different spheres,
I think that we shall find eternal amplitude.

Divine surprise may be there’s no surprise.

Copyright 2008 © George Edward McDonough.  All rights reserved.

No comments:

Post a Comment