It Doesn’t Take a Rocket Scientist
by Patricia | 12.23.09(for Saul)
My son, seven, says, in passing,
“To travel at the speed of light
You must become light.”
From the apparent blue, this bolt
Blasts me from terrain
Of rolling, languid thought,
I am forced to leap by precipice
And, after thrills of floundering,
Beat together wings of suspense
And impetus, igniting flight.
He is only seven, and it is my duty.
Breathless, I ask:
“Where did you hear such a thing?”
He tosses “I just know”
Over a shoulder, stoops
And is gone, uncaring
The grace he has done me.
For him, it is simple collection
From some garish bush, but for me—
They say accidents of real consequence
Happen among comforts of home.
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First published in Irreantum 4.2 (Summer 2002): 80.
December 23rd, 2009 at 10:14 am
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This was brilliant, Patricia. It may well be my favorite of yours. Something about the plainness of the language really thrust this one home.
December 23rd, 2009 at 1:14 pm
I like this too. Thanks.