The wind has died. The body aches so badly,
A lesser body would have cried. No one
Actually knows why we, this species, these
Medium-sized bodies, are the only ones
To cry. Not whimper, mind you, not cry out,
Which a great many animals do, rendingly,
Not simply emote, but bawl, tears and all.
Hoping that the pain this time is no more
Than a passing virus or the low front settling
In the many half-healed bones, the body
Passes the time wondering, did archaic
Humans cry? Neanderthals, Denisovans,
Ghost populations known to us only by genetic
Signatures, if at all—How many generations
Gone, how taxonomically broad has the weeping
Innovation been? Did the little hobbits on Flores
Cry? Did Lucy? Sediba? Any of them?
Who was that first ape, big-brained or only
Bipedal, who sat and wept? It’s a signal
To the others of us, is the best I can guess.
The evening star is out now and the spring
Is still mild. Tomorrrow the hard weather, but
For now the body expects to make it through
The night. Unexpected heroism, terrible loss,
Those are worth actual welling eyes. Pain,
Enemy of the soul, never deserves a good cry.
No comments:
Post a Comment