Playing
God
Nov 26 2014
In late fall
there are mice in the house.
Through infinitesimal cracks
in window sashes
under doors.
Who inhabit the night, uncannily quiet
in a Malthusian nightmare
of fertile mice.
Broken bodies, in baited traps
snapped shut.
Whose hard black eyes
gaze up at me
sightless.
As if at an unappeasable god,
who metes out life and death
as capricious as chance.
As if I had knowledge
of some divine plan
in which they played their part.
In my weaker moments
I think how close we are,
genetic cousins, only bigger.
My mercy
is in hoping it was quick,
an instantaneous death
no one saw coming.
I turn out
their cold stiff bodies
in leaf litter, early snow.
No burial, or holy water.
No slow return to earth
in a closed coffin, formal clothes.
And by morning, they are gone.
Nothing wasted, in nature
where nothing escapes its end.
Whose theology
is thin consolation,
unlike the promise
of gospel truth.
Unless you take comfort
in being of use.
In late fall
there are mice in the house.
Through infinitesimal cracks
in window sashes
under doors.
Who inhabit the night, uncannily quiet
in a Malthusian nightmare
of fertile mice.
Broken bodies, in baited traps
snapped shut.
Whose hard black eyes
gaze up at me
sightless.
As if at an unappeasable god,
who metes out life and death
as capricious as chance.
As if I had knowledge
of some divine plan
in which they played their part.
In my weaker moments
I think how close we are,
genetic cousins, only bigger.
My mercy
is in hoping it was quick,
an instantaneous death
no one saw coming.
I turn out
their cold stiff bodies
in leaf litter, early snow.
No burial, or holy water.
No slow return to earth
in a closed coffin, formal clothes.
And by morning, they are gone.
Nothing wasted, in nature
where nothing escapes its end.
Whose theology
is thin consolation,
unlike the promise
of gospel truth.
Unless you take comfort
in being of use.
There's a lot going on here. My guilt at taking a life, simply for the
privilege of enjoying my sovereign space. The ease with which we categorize the
worthy and unworthy, and reserve our empathy for the former. How the power of
life and death can be exercised so unfeelingly. The commonality of all life, no
matter how much we tend to be preoccupied by difference. The age-old conflict
between science and religion: explaining the world through rational thought,
instead of dogma and superstition (pretty clear which side I'm on!); and in
particular the cycle of life, with its cold comfort, in place of the false
consolation of heaven.
Nevertheless, I've become very adept at regarding these tiny objects covered in grey fur as inanimate. I consider suffering only fleetingly, and when I stray into thoughts of bereavement or motherless kids, I'm quick with scornful accusations of sentimental anthropomorphism. And ultimately, in a biosphere ruled by "eat and be eaten" (I've substituted "and" for "or" because in the grand scheme of things, we all -- ultimately, and in one way or another -- are) there is no exemption due to moral qualms and higher callings. Even Buddhists swat at flies. And as hard as it is to imagine, we will also meet our end.
Nevertheless, I've become very adept at regarding these tiny objects covered in grey fur as inanimate. I consider suffering only fleetingly, and when I stray into thoughts of bereavement or motherless kids, I'm quick with scornful accusations of sentimental anthropomorphism. And ultimately, in a biosphere ruled by "eat and be eaten" (I've substituted "and" for "or" because in the grand scheme of things, we all -- ultimately, and in one way or another -- are) there is no exemption due to moral qualms and higher callings. Even Buddhists swat at flies. And as hard as it is to imagine, we will also meet our end.
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