Riffing on a Peacock Feather

I

Our stomach was originally our brain
I heard it on the radio
and knew in my kishkes that it was true.
Not the organ itself, that sauceless noodle bowl
zigzagging with electrical impulses, but the brain function.
Post-Eden we knew the world
through our primal belly brain.
Grunt. Eat or be meat brain.
Now  in its penthouse beneath the skull,
our grey matter delights in subtle nuance
and melodic twists of poetry,
memorizes endless sequences of simple numbers,
and differentiates between 946379 shades of purple;
but that original brain is wholly intact in our guts,
decisive and fully functional.

II

We share 50 per cent of our DNA with chickens,
the roots of our arm hairs and the blades of our wings
hold the memory of feathers; hence our longings for flight
and to praise dawn with quirky song.
Take peacock feathers, those Goddess eyes,
sacred to HaLeitzah Kedushah, The Holy Clown. I forget about them
for YEARS and then I’m riding down the road
and catch a green shimmer at the edge of vision,
discover one encrypted in a painting, hear the cry,
possibly of a woman in labor but probably of a peacock
davenning her afternoon prayers, and I remember
the eyes on other parts of my body, that I can see light with my hands,
know the sky with my heart. When I feel that tickle in my kishkes
I know HaLeitzah Kedushah has been here and left
her calling card, her paw print.
Her invitation to see with a single eye.