Everything will be permitted, nothing will be desired
We abandoned our bodies not long
after the millennium. Even the memory
was hateful at first -- wet, crabwise things,
animalcules in a giant jizz wad rushing to fertilize
the Great Mother. Absurd lips, genitals,
rounded skulls like the dumb heads of sperm.
Reproduction a horror of chance, like reaching
blind into a grab bag for gametes.
We had cures for everything: cancer,
heart disease. We lived too long, witnessed
the recalculation of risk. Watched the ordinary --
cotton, moonlight -- turn deadly. There were
so many ways to die. In time
our absent bodies grew benign,
the way vanished things become lovable.
Laudanum. Castor oil. We shake
our heads at the big-head bipeds
that wander our history like hi-wheels
and wagons; tote their leaks
and swellings in the hapless past.
A mere century makes of our bodies
a Golden Age. We doubt the measure
of our bloodless geometry, press
the old timers for stories of flesh:
They say our fingers made trails in the water;
and the pizza cheese burned our mouths. They say
sometimes our bare legs would stick to the back seats of cars.
© 2010 Laura Ring
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