"And so other births, which because they have either a superfluity or a defect, or because they are very much deformed, are called monstrosities, shall at the resurrection be restored to the normal shape of man." — St. Augustine, The Enchiridion
Arise, says the voice more powerful
than thunder. Arise and be well.
Suddenly, deep within my catacomb
of glass, I wake from the slumber
My lungs, no longer seared
by aqua vitae,
draw fresh quotients
My unorthodox limbs—now trimmed
back—are steady beneath,
and I take a few steps, stunned to realize
this queer body with me has disappeared.
No longer do I scuttle, and a jar-held
reflection confirms my
If grotesquely beautiful,
I am now half the monster I used
Outside, the world burns in a new light,
but we ex-terata are oddly sheltered
from the flames, like saints in some
cathedral of snow.
As we proceed en masse from
the Hall of Curiosities—we once
and former cyclopes, disomi,
we're afraid to look down
at our shadows,
but for the first times in our bleak lives
And if, as a strident few proclaim,
Heaven turns out to be
just another gulag, with normalcy
These we dismember and eat
on the long trip home.