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Patricia Monaghan
[pmonagha@wppost.depaul.edu]
Observations of Schroedinger's Cat When I’m in the box,
what I hear mostly is
the sound of my own body:
little rifflings, twisted
roars, sometimes a whirr.
And smell, I notice that:
my own warm smell
I mean--the box is thick, too
thick for anything outside
to make its way to me.I can feel, too, the edges
of my body, my claws
with their uneven points,
my hard paws, my little
antennae whiskers. I know
I am spotted, black and white,
because I can feel the tiny
difference between my colors:
black like putty or molasses,
white slicker, like paint,
against my sandy tongue.There’s nothing to do here
but play with the device--
the little poison toy that
you imagine I ignore--
and so I do. I roll it over
and over, press my nose
against it, even toss it
in the air now and again.
My fate is randomly controlled.
And so I play. I might as well.Of course I grow hungry
and thirsty, but these
experiments are brief,
I’m out in time for meals.
And then I’m at the dish
instantly, and you think
I’m not listening as
you talk about my life,
the way you have created
me, the way I’m only here
because you witness me,
and when I arch my back
and purr, and you stroke me
and think I’m ignorant while
you are not: I’m laughing
at your theories. Really,
you have missed it all.Put this into your formulae:
I can see myself in risky
darknesses, I am my own
witness to my life, I do
not live or die because
you watch. Put this in too:sometimes my solitude expands
the space between the nucleus
and electrons of every atom
until I am vast, floating cloudlike
over you, watching you go about
your other experiments, floating
over the ocean like a hurricane,
floating out into space, observing
everything at the same instant.And if one day you find me
dead in my little box, you will
never know what that means,
whether I am gone like a snuffed
light, or whether I am still
roving among the still stars.