Science
died of a head cold. Maybe more than that.
He knew how to interrupt a storm
to show lightening how to kiss.

I am Mathematics.

I knew to zero things.
Sometimes when I loved hard enough
I could multiply my heart into one thousand
anatomical medusas,
whither,
and then hiss for praise.

I was broken,
and transitively, science was broken.
Our together destroyed worlds.
Oppenheimer brought black apples
to the graves and said I told you so.

But, we all know love is a shallow pit
of hopeful fingers.

He taught me to bring out my body
in the night and measure myself against
his insides. Could my heart coil
like his intestines?

My god! he was stunning.

Who could ever love me like that?
Compartmentalize my arms and legs and my organs
and the trinkets worn by my organs into tiny boxes
all with their own names!

Argon my dread, Scandium my violent light,
Zirconium my devotion, Antimony my name.

And he called my heart
the Periodic Table and
he called my intentions God,

and they were at war, never answered to one another,
never solved anything, always caused a great catastrophe,
and yet he loved me unto the bottom and top of time.

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