"Astronomy compels the soul to look upward and leads us from this world to another." - Plato, "Let us be grateful to people who make us happy- they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." -Marcel Proust, a fit like an inky glove, a-hem, “You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” - C.S. Lewis, I feel you precious soul . . . And I am whole, nice Freds, Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies an' tho' a cloud's shape nor hue nor size don't stay the same it's still a cloud an' so is a soul., stich in time, Under her hands I feel as clay Under her weight I feel weightless Under her clock time goes away
She took her sharpest scissors —
A pair of steel with no stains —
And carefully laid her left leg out
Upon the well-elbowed kitchen table.
A long, pale lissome bough
Resembling a fleshy land spit
On a worn, wooden scape of sea.
She needed to know.
Deciding it best to start at the feet,
They being the most fiddly —
Five rococo wagglers on display —
She slipped the infinitesimally fine blades
Between toe and sole, soul and toe.
A dotted line delicately circumscribed the edge.
‘How considerate, and practical,’ thought she.
And once she’d navigated the fussier parts
(Ears, fingers, and nose, nips and nethers),
It was plain transcendental sailing from there on in:
A hot knife through the buttery, spectral surface.
And then . . . ‘twas done.
All of a sudden
A warning tag popped out:
‘Please keep to the line with precision,
Or risk a separation minus conclusion
And consequently end up a halfwit.
Guaranteed for a *googolplex —
A solid centurion of zeros.
*See terms and conditions.
Dry clean only.
Do not iron.
Keep away from the devil.
Made to measure.
One fifth swapped to date.’
Feeling unbalanced and oddly two dimensional,
She laid her soul carefully upon the rocking chair.
There it sat, draped in an elegant, louche fashion.
Immediately the patch was obvious!
Another element’s element sewn blanket stitch,
To her own being, quite seamlessly,
Melding with and mending an existential gap.
A perfect match.
Gratified and proven correct in her hopeful assumptions,
She climbed onto the rickety table,
Neatly bounced upon her heels . . . twice,
And then dove gracefully through the centre of the shady shifter.
Which then sealed back in place again at speed,
With a resounding ‘pop!’
The warmth flooded her body,
And the Self was contained once more.
In a trice all her dimensions returned.
A soul of two pieces,
And a peace of one’s mind.