DNA
The young woman on the bus
wearing headphones
has a mole on her neck.
Perhaps the same mole
in the same place
on some ancient ancestor
itched with sweat as she
crawled on hands and knees
through the king’s garden,
back bent, pulling weeds.
I know someone whose husband
died a month after their baby’s birth.
Years later, she had to turn away
when her teenaged son brushed
the hair from his girlfriend’s
face with exactly the same gesture
as the father he had never known.
Some mysteries are greater
than the birth of stars;
that sound you hear the moment
before sleep is not the wind, but
your own flesh, in a timeless,
whispered conversation with itself.
If it can be said there is any upside to the Covid pandemic (and that’s something I do with great trepidation when referring to an illness that has affected a half billion individuals worldwide, and extinguished nearly 6 million lives), it may be the sort of shift in global consciousness which, sad to say, only disaster seems to be able to quickly accomplish. There’s been something of a broad awakening concerning human mortality and the utter fragility of all we love. And that extends beyond the domain of family and friends, and touches on ideas of community, the environment, planetary survival. I’m not suggesting it’s universal – and I am in no way minimizing the countervailing forces of power politics and fear. But experiencing the possibility that we might not see our children or grandchildren grow up (or, during some of the darker days we’ve been through, that we’d enjoy even another spring), changes something fundamentally. That knowledge projects a rather harsh spotlight onto how we’re passing through our days and what is it we truly value. I don’t believe I’m being overly optimistic to suggest that, in our new pandemic reality, we might be entertaining more moments of – at least awareness, if not outright compassion – for all those anonymous fellow-travelers whose paths we cross in the supermarket or on the bus heading home, and who are staring back at us with curiosity from above their masks.
Charles Coe is a poet, educator, exuberant baritone, avid blogger, big-hearted individual. In today’s Red Letter, I’m offering one of his poems that predates the pandemic (it’s included in his collection All Sins Forgiven: Poems For My Parents from Leapfrog Press) yet seems to be reflecting what I’ve come to think of as Covid-mind. It takes one of those simple perceptions of the other and makes of it a small portrait of humankind on this troubled blue-green planet. This is the transformative capability of a well-crafted poem: it can engage within us that cinematic effect of the ‘slow zoom’ – and not simply visually but within the depths of our emotional landscapes. Its approach can either focus in on the fine-detailed microcosm, until even the familiar becomes quietly astonishing; or, as in the case of Charles’ poem, it can begin with the small specific detail and then broaden out to gradually assume something of a god-like perspective. And from that great distance, I think our hearts feel like they must stretch their boundaries in order to encompass that deep feeling for (how could I not have seen it earlier?!) the rich complexity each individual life contains. “For small creatures such as us,” wrote the planetary scientist Carl Sagan, “the vastness is only bearable through love.” And paying attention – to the great swing of the galaxy, to the modest beauty passing outside the bus window, even to the mole on a girl’s neck (not to mention the poet’s precision as he describes it all in a notebook) – is nothing less than an act of love.