Omniscience

To know everything would be
to kiss the junky's blue lips.

To know everything would be to smell
human flesh burning, to count the pulse
rate of a man flying out of the twin towers
and his brother's who follows him.

To know everything would be to
study the hem of a dress in 1868
as it swipes through street residue:
horse shit, dirt, coal dust, tuberculosis.

You could tell
your daughter what Bucephalos'
mane and coat felt like:
his shoulder was dry and warm,
his hair coarse.

It would offer you the painted colors of
the statues lounging in Pompei and
the sight of the child curled in a ball
as the ashes fell. To know everything
would hinder you. It would
mean dismissing knowledge like most
people do everyday

anyway, just so they can use
the products bought with someone
else's cheap time, some child's
cheap time, dear time. It would
even be hard to eat the tomatos
bought from the roadside stand
of a father's whose son
has died when the father
does not know it yet.

Copyright Louise Robertson