THREE POEMS
Coded Messages (Architecture 2)
The purpose of being alive is to carry a sequence of code.And so, being adopted, I’m part of a plot, a sleeper cellin enemy territory, quietly working against the systemfrom within. It’s fall, I’m on an ancestry website signing up for a DNA kit,because this is what adoptees are supposed to do at some point.There are several to choose from, flow chart questionsleading toward cousins, health risks. Two versions of the story,because versions of stories are how we get to tomorrow, and everywhere aroundis a pretend grave you inhabit bit by bit. I’ve chosen “cousin,” then,as we have to choose something,and I want to know, more so than heart disease and northern Europe.I’m in my 50s. None of these stories will matter all that much longer,unless one of us tells them in especially memorable ways, but even thatonly extends another generation or so, like saying we drove through Grant City once,and that’s what becomes of Grant City. You get to this point of every life is a life,every job is a job. (Like hunting the snark, when there is no snark,as all snarks are boojums.). There’s a long list of John Gallahers out there.I’m friends with several on social media, and I get updates;they’re out doing things: John Gallaher flying, John Gallaher at the pyramids,et cetera. And there are several Eric Enquists as well, my birth name.I didn’t friend any of them on social media, though, as that didn’t seem funny,in the way that sending a friend request to John Gallaher felt funny: “Hey John,it’s John! What are we up to?” Whatever you call yourself, though,it’s the same sequence of code. Dear rose, dear octopus, it’s a dramatization:you belong where you are and you belong to something else. Fire.Element. It’s like how it turns out humans might bethe most remarkable thing in the universe,and the price for that would be that we’re the only ones who would know.
