Backbone

My 6 2011

There are no rules

underwater.

Exoskeletons

and fleshy blobs,

beasts who slip their shells

on and off.

But we are of the subphylum vertebrate,

our internal scaffold of bone

hidden from sight.

We are land animals, upright

defying gravity.

Calculating our centre of mass,

automatically

taking our weight for granted,

as we arise, and walk

distracted by important thoughts.

The skeleton in our closet,

the backbone

we need to go on.

Concealing the lives

we’ve left behind

or somehow forgotten.

Not just the hypocrites

and bold impostors,

but the innocents

and men of honour.

And even the most righteous among us,

who has his secrets

he keeps from everyone else;

even himself, sometimes.

I was surprised when I learned

that Mother Teresa spent her life

afflicted by doubt.

That Hitler

was a vegetarian,

concerned for the welfare of animals.

And that our fearless leader

doesn’t  much care

for the little people

he proclaims to love.

Like all of us,

the secret thoughts we dare not share

with any other.

So we go to the grave

wondering if we’ll be called to account

in the afterlife,

for thought crimes

and sins of omission.

If there is a God of forgiveness

or retribution.

Or if this is it

and then we’re gone,

consigned to the earth in a wooden box

that rots, along with our flesh.

Where our secrets are also interred.

Leaving teeth, showing their wear

and  a jumble of bones, picked bare.

That will go on and on,

containing our sins

forever.