The Secret Lives of Scientists

The universe proves itself unreliable when

1

James Prescott Joule, whose findings lead to the first
law of thermodynamics, spends his honeymoon
jury-rigging a thermometer at the top
and bottom of a waterfall instead of canoodling.

The limits of pleasure are neither known
nor fixed. Friction keeps him sharp.

2

Thomas Edison doesn’t bathe, convinced that changing
his clothes negatively alters his body chemistry.
He refers to his children as “Dot” and “Dash,”
and when he notices them, treats them like pets.

He strives to be immaculate
in his thinking.

3

Nikola Tesla develops the first motor for alternating
current. He is afraid of earrings, peaches, touching
people’s hair, and eating food whose cubic footage
he hasn’t been able to estimate at a glance.

This is how he has to live if he wants
to avoid high voltages.

4

Albert Einstein has a way with gravity. “When one thinks
seriously day and night one can’t engage easily
in loving chatter; I treat my wife as an employee
whom I cannot sack.” Has empathy

for dust and dirt
and a few teaspoons of uranium.

5 During the Roman assault on Syracuse, Archimedes traces parabolas
in the sand. When a soldier tries to drag him to the Roman general,
he says, “Do not disturb my circles, wait until I finish
my proof.” The soldier kills him on the spot.

An Archive of Paper Cuts

Last stop for the happy family of pancakes.
Last stop for the rose that has no teeth.
Last stop to pin a medal on the donkey.
Last stop for stacks of
antique maps, playing cards, anchovy tins.
This is the last stop for an animal whose instinct fails him.
This is the last stop for fury without a witness.
This is the last stop on the hangman’s dance card.
This is the last stop to sleep without dreams.
Last stop in a graveyard of elephants—
bury the bones so they face the sun.
This is the last stop in the evening—
hear the mocking bird, crisp and even.

Devotion

At St. Cecilia’s, the nuns warn her
not to go on dates at restaurants
with white tablecloths

because they will remind
boys of bed sheets
and drive them wild with desire.

She scrawls prayers, mantras,
excerpts from hymns
on her underwear, stuffs
talismans in her bra

trying to capture
the bright, hungry hope of—

The nuns insist
the color of devotion is grey—
want her to become comfortable
with the hue of dirty dishwater.

She is careful,
selecting Formica tabletops,
wearing a hairshirt turtleneck.

After dinner the boy kisses her good night;
the kiss falls down gently to her heart—
a tiny, pale feather.

“A kiss is a scent mark
so you can find each other,”
he promises.

Drawn to the intoxicating
warmth of God,
she doesn’t brush her teeth
before bed, afraid she will
rinse out the prayer.

Emerson Visits His Wife

I visited Ellen’s tomb and opened the coffin.

He always wears boots on wet days
so it’s peculiar when he tries
to dig up a soul
just so he can find a tiny space of unbreathed air.

The day is sad, the night is careful,
the heart is weighted down with lead

even in the smallest corner of his house.
Sorrow leaks everywhere,
he collects his tears in a small glass,
discovers that silence has a texture.

The nymph who wept became a fountain;
the nymph who pined became an echo.

His faith is so strong
he needs proof
declaring her absence
with the vengeance of worms
and hollow spaces.

After we’re dead
and buried we’ll turn into
plants and dirt,
clouds and water.

It will take thousands of years
to become part of this world again.

After Ellen’s death
he always has a fresh supply of buttons,
pennies, pebbles in his pockets to avoid
the discomfort of finding himself with
nothing left to lose.