Souls
"After the last breath, eyelids must be closed
quickly. For eyes are windows of the soul
- that shy thing which is immortal. And none
should see its exit vulnerably exposed,"
proclaimed the bearded man on Yom Kippur.
Grownups believed in the soul. Otherwise
why did grandfather murmur the morning prayer,
"Lord, the soul Thou hast given me is pure"?
Near the kitchen door where they notched my height
a mirror hung. There I saw the big eyes
of a boy. I could not picture the soul
immaterial and immortal. A cone of light?
Those two black zeros the soul's windows. Daft!
Later at medical school , I learnt of
the pineal gland, its size a cherrystone,
vestige of the third eye, and laughed.
But seven colors hide in light's disguise
and the blue sky's black. No wonder Egyptians
once believed, in their metamorphosis,
souls soared, became visible: butterflies.
Now old, I'm credulous. Superstition clings.
After the melting eyes and devastation
of Hiroshima, they say butterflies, crazed,
flew about, fluttering soundless things.
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