July 2019
Bionote: The college school year is over, and I just finished a three-year stint as the poet laureate of my town. I am spending the summer lying on the floor napping with the dog. In between naps, I sometimes read a poem, work in the garden or drink a martini.
TWO
Symmetry: the spokes of a snowflake,
the hexagonal beehive, two translucent wings,
a shell cleaved into petals,
our definition of beauty.
Why does the cosmos need this balance,
like tree branches forking,
the double helix of DNA,
a day beginning and ending
with a molten sphere licking its flames
across the horizon,
the way your tongue runs just so,
splitting open my skin?
DARK MATTER
"Roughly eighty percent of the universe is made up of material that scientists cannot directly observe.”
Symmetry, 4/10/19
You know how it is—
that thing you can only see slant,
shadowy in the corner of your eye.
That thing belongs to elves, to witchcraft
and God, a mystical vision of hot light,
and passion that burns in nuns.
It’s there like a childhood memory
of nearly drowning that your mother believes
didn’t happen or a conspiracy theorist’s
imaginary Armageddon while men lie sleeping
on Chicago’s concrete sidewalks.
It’s the invisible bird singing from the woods,
the footstep in your dream that wakes you
as if real, like your father’s ghost haunting you
before his death. At least math
those imaginary numbers—
are made material through their combinations.
So we manufacture stronger eyes
to capture the veiled,
look out our windows at spring
and rejoice that the leaves,
ghostly only last week,
are now lacy and green.
TWO
Symmetry: the spokes of a snowflake,
the hexagonal beehive, two translucent wings,
a shell cleaved into petals,
our definition of beauty.
Why does the cosmos need this balance,
like tree branches forking,
the double helix of DNA,
a day beginning and ending
with a molten sphere licking its flames
across the horizon,
the way your tongue runs just so,
splitting open my skin?
DARK MATTER
"Roughly eighty percent of the universe is made up of material that scientists cannot directly observe.”
Symmetry, 4/10/19
You know how it is—
that thing you can only see slant,
shadowy in the corner of your eye.
That thing belongs to elves, to witchcraft
and God, a mystical vision of hot light,
and passion that burns in nuns.
It’s there like a childhood memory
of nearly drowning that your mother believes
didn’t happen or a conspiracy theorist’s
imaginary Armageddon while men lie sleeping
on Chicago’s concrete sidewalks.
It’s the invisible bird singing from the woods,
the footstep in your dream that wakes you
as if real, like your father’s ghost haunting you
before his death. At least math
those imaginary numbers—
are made material through their combinations.
So we manufacture stronger eyes
to capture the veiled,
look out our windows at spring
and rejoice that the leaves,
ghostly only last week,
are now lacy and green.
© 2019 Laurel Peterson
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