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
Flags, unfortunately, denote conditions
of slavery (possession
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.
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?