This poem appears in the Winter–Fall 2012 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.
By now, they’ve carved her stone with dates to show
the span between a first and final breath.
Mousson will read the news and send a wreath . . .
An eon passed . . . memorial cracked, weeds grown . . .
her grave’s an empty spot, and no one knows
what warmth once moved the dust that lies beneath . . .
Next, my turn comes . . . when I’m below the earth
ten thousand years with Kepler and Carnot:
our work, proud formulae that once we knew
as science, will have perished, with our names.
The Stagirite, we scoff at; Ptolemy, too—
tomorrow’s scientists will laugh the same
at us . . . Brave lamps that burn so bright when new
soon flicker low . . . the night outlasts our flame.
