Diane Hine (25 July 1956)
What’s new in science? Quantum computers? Good,
we’ll need fuzzy thinking to resurrect
the woolly mammoths snap frozen in Yakutsk.
We’ll fire up some Pleistocene cybersex.
Colonize Mars? Plot interstellar treks?
Imagine star ships sailing manifold
cold voids, bridge decks blinking like discotheques
while we sweat inside our thin blue gloriole.
Everyone will escape, long before Sol
swaddles Earth in hot red effluvium
and exodus is a good long term goal;
persistence, not of memory but of human
or human cyborg. I want them to survive.
If early pioneers use pulsed fusion
a second wave could overtake with warp drive
spearing Milky Andromeda’s rendezvous and
dusting the dark sides of planets with lights.
But svelte or swollen, red, white or black, the Sun
will always be the first star they look for at night
with fond thoughts of the fabled Earthlings (that’s us) .
Feeling nostalgic, they might return some Time;
with spades and archaeological intent.
I’m inclined to think that if anyone’s
going to dig us up, it will be them.
But wait, what about the woolly mammoths
paddling in the permafrost? They’ll go too!
squeezed in an interstellar windjammer
tucked in a little animal embryo zoo.
Comments about this poem (Woolly Mammoths by Diane Hine )
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