Clone

by Bill Carpenter

Clone
     for Duff

Free man in a free country, family off to New York
for Passover, long winter through, love stabilized
for the time being, nothing to die for, alone;

this might be a good time to make your clone.
A snip from your useless male nipple, a quick trip to
Scotland, a borrowed or rented ewe, and you will be two

an old and a new you, and just in time too.  Death has
been stalking you.  No basset hound face, no cold feet
from standing on the shore of time, no hernia

poking through.  Your sins are forgiven you.  One time
you nearly mated with a ewe, in the Holmgrens’ barn, you
next in line, then you were called for supper, lamb stew.

Everyone got some but you.  Down in New York, they leave a chair
empty for you, horseradish, morror, salt, bread of captivity too,
but you’re not alone, you’re home, you’re grilling a pork chop

with your clone.  On this night like no others.  You pig.  You
should be on your knees.  Instead, you are watching the Simpsons
on TV.  You lose.  You are a Pharisee.  Your only religion is the news.

Consider the lamb of God — King, man and Jew — He was cloned too,
using a pure human female instead of the usual ewe.
Your clone will outdistance you.  He will outlive and outdo.

He will know every fact that you knew.  He will watch
what you smoke and you chew.  He will breathe the same air
as you do.  He’ll have false buried memories of you.  You’ll
need an attorney or two.  When he grows up he could sue.