Vocal chords stripped like paint and glue
from black-slicked steel,
God’s bruised knuckles clasped round
the hilt of the chisel. He left me
wide eyes, pricked ear, babbling lips
like koi drowning in summer breeze
but from my bones he drew stasis,
wrapped it round sound
until I became the radiation
of black holes.
They didn’t know
for years that I could contribute
at all, only thought I absorbed
what they threw at me
and spit it back out through my other ear
that they could not yet find.
They couldn’t see that I had the secrets
of string theory strung through
the paint strips at my feet;
Turing’s forgotten papers burnt
in the blow torch God used to
pull steel from welded steel.
Molten metal dripped to concrete
and I was forced to watch
as they called to the world that I
had nothing in my silent frame.
At home I wrote them all letters,
pasted them on my walls and door
and covered every window pane until
light was eclipsed by tape and purple ink
on tea-stained notebook leaves.
I wrote the general theory
of relativity a thousand years
before Einstein happened
upon the scribbled words in his desk drawer.
I quantified the universe while Heisenberg
still scratched his head, stumped
in the machinations of uncertainty.
I imagined imaginary time and
just for a laugh called it
i in my own image
with the blood of
God’s knuckles still
spattered on my tennis shoes.
Some day, I thought, they would find
that inside my head had lain
the theory of everything but
all they could hear was my
Spring, 2019 Issue