- home - Art - Poetry by Elias Alias - next -






The Choice


They were invisible entities and their

efforts with me were labored and hard-won. They

told me I had no choice but to choose.

"You must choose, and then return."


Form was not in question;

sex, a secondary selection. I would be human,

human again and named, like all the times before; yet new,

like each time before. Maybe Alan or Alice, short or tall....


"May I have talent this time?"

"By Grace you may. It is written."

"May I escape pain?"

"To some degree."

"Have I not, this time, shown improvement?"

"But not sufficient."

When they left, they left something standing

like Enoch's lost scripts on the bridge of conical time

in a cave at Qumran, awaiting time's funneled-down

transport to reality.


The tall mirrors of periodicity stood mountain-high

above the meadow, converging all image into itself and

into reflections of itself. There was no movement, save a

dive of decision and an ellipse,

a flurry of feathers and a sleeping.


The whirlwind whispered;

the child threw the stone into the cave;

shards shattered, spilling sagery on the earth;

the spiral was begun;

the memory was forgotten.


The choice, submitted, sent the soul in secrecy to

the bone gate, a passenger to be named.

Free flight fixed into form, was held up ingloriously

in hospital hands, up by blue ankles; was whacked, wrapped

warm, and cried.


The beginning of time is neither behind us nor before us,

but above us.

Being but belief, there be no time.


copyright 1986, 2007 Elias Alias


- home - Art - Poetry by Elias Alias - next -