Perhaps
radical Darwinists are wrong about materialism,
and the mind, that sense of self, is not a tool
generated by our genes to secure their rule
until our stardust robot bodies crumble?
Perhaps
Dualist’s separate body and soul theory holds,
and our spirit, unfixed in spatial location,
migrates at death to a different mould?
If so, what catalyst triggers transmigration?
Perhaps
causation is linked to an event of relevance
a moment of elation, an empiric experience
that transcends metaphysics, evades epistemology
by lurking unknown in the mystery of memory?
Perhaps
transmogrification tracks past euphoria?
Like that early morning magic seen in Costa Rica,
when Montezuma’s Oropendula, overcome by lust,
burst wildly to display as the veiling mist lifted.
Perhaps
I might return as a Montezuma’s Oropendula?
A bird that’s at it best when hanging upside down
quivering its golden plumes beside its pendulous nest
on a favoured branch in the glistening cloud forest.
Perhaps
that’s excessively expressive for my soul
that matches more the large and solemn Kakapo
that burrows deep in sodden ferns, furtive and alone
and booms each night within its trodden earthen bowl?
