Tuesday, May 6, 2014


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.

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