Neither a monist nor a dualist, God
Shyly admitted to being indeed
A trinitarian, a three-in-one,
A shamrock, although not so unified
As the lovers of paradox might like,
Nor exactly a father and a son.
But the ghost, yes, the ghost was about right.
The ghost got to go everywhere. The host
Got around some, although it hurt a lot,
While the awareness of God remained stuck,
Never free from the host, always waiting
On the ghost drifting in through morning light,
A trial no one seemed to understand,
Stuck as they were on the one or the two.
At the moment, monists had the hot hand.
All the evidence suggested the flesh
Made the mind and the mind was made from flesh
And without flesh was nothing made was made.
Oh, fine, God rolled God’s eyes, in that case, yes.
Those aspects of me are never distinct.
I am stuck to the host, and host I am.
But the ghost. Or ghosts. The many in one.
Don’t any of you other gods wonder
At the strangeness of knowing, once begun?
It, they, fly from outside and are never
Commensals or parasites of the flesh.
By ghost, host and awareness are tethered.
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