Nor Could the Sun
after Archibald MacLeish “Einstein”
— tones equidistant, fervent
sweet music make
but it seems assured
she ends
her hands, which are decorticate
disintegrate
for suddenly she feels—
a sleep-wake drift spate
cognate
whence she knows
each calyx
undifferentiated
outstretched on the earth
she puts out leaves
and although they seize
integrated electron furls
—but the sepals
[vitreous chimes]
when in a moment she occupies—
—but the sepals
petals fugue-fused—
now no words
[overflow]
she lies upon her bed
atomic
she can count the first
sharp glimmer
if they will not speak—
basalt torrents rapt
on iron rails
whence begins
each plummety paradox
still she stands—
careful to follow
each aural centrifuge
each utterance
for which she shall feel, infuse
this element
[however fire-fraught]
like a body
which seems to keep—
Poet, botanist, and artist Rebecca A. Durham is the author of Half-Life of Empathy (New Rivers Press, 2020) and Loss/Less (Shanti Arts, 2022). Originally from New England, she now lives in Montana where she works as botanist. Find more of her work at rebeccadurham.net.
