Questions About the Soul
Much summoned in religious texts
and the poems of previous centuries
(oft prefaced by the interjection, O),
it’s off-limits to poets today who speak of it
largely in euphemism: spirit, psyche, Self
(of this last we have plenty to say).
Is it tripartite like God: ego, superego, id?
An artifice of speech: I, me? Or sheer effusion
of energy, the leap across the synapse: animula,
little mouse or muscle moving beneath the skin?
Then every animal must have one, too, the blunt
cow, the squirrel with its plump, articulate tail,
the tiny sea-horse. Whitman’s was a spider
spinning gossamer filaments to touch the world.
Emily’s, a butterfly disguised in a cocoon of silk.
Does the soul live in my skull? my solar
plexus? Is it alone? Can it be shared?
And what is its relation to the sun, to stars?
O, my soul, my sole, my only—curious, elusive
waif—I don’t know what you are
or what you’re made of—only that you
walk with me and move me, partial
solid that I am, wherever I go,
wherever I set my foot on the ground.
Jean Nordhaus’s six volumes of poetry include Memos from the Broken World, The Porcelain Apes of Moses Mendelssohn, and Innocence. She has published poetry and dance criticism in numerous journals and served as review editor of Poet Lore. She lives in Washington, DC.
on Greg McBride