OUR MOTHER SCIENCE

OUR MOTHER SCIENCE
8/1989?

I want to shine my world divine
I want to walk the steps of time
I want to smile so all alone
Reflections of the truth I’ve known

I want to glimpse inside your shoes
See your beauty hues
And know your desert land
Caress your puzzles fair white hand

I want to know
I want to know

Glances touch while viewing different spheres
They glance until death
Then baptize with their tears
Incantations for better clues
To live the invocation of the muse

Soft white sand between our toes
Violent walls crash to the rhythm of the moon
Sharp red corals worn smooth by first spheres’ persistence

The first sphere, the moon, was once reflective of the uncertainty of our destinies. The ever changing twist of fate could not be grasped within the whims of her rotation. Yet her indelible rhythm moves the earth in her undercurrents. It wears thin the beaches that prevent Odysseus’ landing. Soft shores owe their serene to her fluctuant presence.

Now the beaches that once embraced our elder sailors boils our blood and makes werewolves out of us. We aim our sites on the outer spheres, dizzied by the spinning orb so close we cannot gain perspective. We swoon and fall by her sweet chorus. We seek escape from the uncertainty. Culture has become near sited. Our focus is on the cold distant Pluto. We look to the fixed stars. Our eyes cross when we look too closely at the rings on our fingers. We remember we have two eyes. The rings can only be viewed from a distance. When we look too closely our eyes double and we begin to see the world through two distinct visions. But we can only assimilate one. Thus we either pull our hands away to alleviate the dichotomy or merely poke out the eye that creates the affliction.

Now outside of this dizzying rotation we gain “perspective” on our destinies. To swear upon the moon is to swear upon the uncertainty of our future. Thus the betrayal of Criseyde. Now we demand the stance of the fixed stars. Cold distant suns demand our obedience. The distance allows our eyes to meet in the cold vacuum of space – beyond the grasp of Mars or even Venus. Even yet, though, as children we tend to cross our eyes. Our mother, the scientist, glances rather concernedly and says “don’t dare do that, your eyes will get stuck that way.” Lest we look silly, lest she be required to poke out our eye; Lest she lose her job.