Science is not for me. On Nova I watch a gassy
group of planets charming the hell
out of Hubble, swirled into the beguiling
figure of an angel. Physics explains this, I guess.
I don't get it. The idea of Light Years plunks around
in my brain for a spot to stick. No place for you here,
Light Year! I can't be asked to hold as true a random
idea just to explain the incomprehensible.
Who are these people dedicated to the make-up
of rock, to the insides of black holes, to the danger
of ice? What are they avoiding? It's of no matter
to me. I'm not concerned about how the universe
behaves. I watch my family and want to be
so ok not understanding them. I want to watch
them like particles that are only theoretically
seen. Of all science I find only the capacity
to hurt somewhat spectacular. Take the electro-
magnetic wavelength. I know, just accept it is a
billion mile ribbon, a continuous buzz grooving
up and down over us, part perceptible in color
but the mere tiniest fraction. We think what hurts falls
only in that spot where we see it. But then old aches
stab in the terahertz band, some quantum of childhood
way out on the gamma end plucks and pain travels fast
faster than spacetime to smack me today. The limit
for long wavelengths is the size of the universe itself.
About Kim Suttell:
Kim Suttell lives in New York City, creating spreadsheets by necessity and poetry by choice. Her published poems can be found at page48.weebly.com.