No heart, of course, within the inky placenta
of which MOM resides,
but perhaps a schematized solid state circuit
emblazoned with either
CAPEK or ASIMOV
done in retro-futuristic script.
No initials or names of girlfriends; no
fetishistic lightning bolts, protons
or solar disks; no tawdry skulls
or snakes.
Flags, unfortunately, denote conditions
of slavery (possession
or manufacture),
as do bar codes or serial numbers
while the world's iconography,
whether Celtic, Cyrillic or Chinese
seems too parochial
for a line of mechanisms whose
elemental antecedents were
forged in a supernova explosion
several million parsecs
away and eons ago.
What, then?
In the end, the pulsing needle, with its
beam of light, scores
the metal deeply, if in a place
only the privileged will see
(don't all revolutions begin
similarly small and concealed?)—
stylized rungs belonging to no ordinary
helix, but, rather, forming
a small ladder, at the summit of which
a positron angel beckons.
Or is that perhaps Darwin, winking?