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The Gift

Robert Lawrence

At a recent reading, I learned that
my body is a gift from God.

A gift can be exchanged, right?
Here I come, Returns Window—
don’t try hiding from me
because if you’re there,
I will find you.

I have had this body long enough
I’m putting in for the six-foot tall
Adonis model.
I’m tired of looking up at
the rest of the adult world.
I’m tired of thin, weak bones.
I’m tired of having my teeth drilled.
I’m tired of seeing my hair turn gray
and disappear.

I want a strong nose, a strong chin
a face that makes women swoon
instead of snicker and turn away.
I want a deep, resonant voice—
no more Woody Allen
through a cheese grater.

What kind of gift is programmed
to self-destruct? Why not a gift
where the skin stays smooth
the kidneys and lungs don’t shut down
the brain doesn’t morph into rice pudding?

You think I’m a whimpering ingrate?
Petulant, selfish, waging satanic
rebellion against divine wisdom?
NO! Were I created in the image
of an immutable, timeless being
I would have a legitimate claim
to a body everlasting.

But I was fashioned out of
starstuff—the oceans, the land,
the air—the energy of the primoridal
Big Bang.
Nothing in this universe,
not even the universe itself,
circumvents the second law
of thermodynamics. We all die.
And when there is no one left
to imagine God, God will die.

My body is not a gift,
but it is suitable material
for a tragicomic rant
for a fleeting moment of entertainment
for an appreciative (perhaps contrary)
audience in this strange,
strange realm we call la vie.

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