Every time I get ready to dismiss the supernatural

Every time I get ready to dismiss the supernatural
I get held up by the thought of worms;
I get held up by the thought of cells;
I begin thinking in a kind of random, frantic way
as if I were a child of eight without a single answer
for anything whatsoever. Now, I would correct
myself and just move on were it not that I hold that child
in such high regard. That child is often my cleverest part;
that child is the one that dares everyone to prove everything;
that child is the one magicians hate because he can’t be misdirected;
he’s too literal, he’s too watchful, he’s on to you.
They tell me every cell in my nearly sixty year-old frame
is a replacement for a cell that died, and I am the being
that consisted of all those cells but they are dead
and these cells are new and I am that being, too,
which is the same exact being it was before
and what the hell is up with that?
What, then, is me, Mr. Wizard? Is my consciousness
a simple delusion or does it have a shape and form that
could just as easily be kept in a jar in my bottom drawer?
Is this a soul I see before me?
How can I be me if I am not me anymore?
When my eight year old splits that earthworm he gets
two and it blows his little mind. Two separate pets
that burrow through the earth like any other worm.
How is that not a miracle?
I understand the chemistry,
I understand the electricity,
I understand the physics,
but I do not understand the power in a child’s hand
that can create another being with a goddamned penknife.
How do I get through a single hour unamazed?

Some days like today I am hesitant to even pare my nails
for fear the clippings will organize and run away
and each of them will start a blog and tell all the
really rancid shit they know about me.
Life is hell for the truly lonely.

—Don Whittington

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