Combustion by Sara Eliza Johnson

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend November 18, 2014   Combustion   Sara Eliza Johnson

If a human body has two-hundred-and-six bones and thirty trillion cells, and each cell has one hundred trillion atoms, if the spine has thirty-three vertebrae—                   if each atom has a shadow—then the lilacs across the yard are nebulae beginning to star. If the fruit flies that settle on the orange on the table rise like the photons                    from a bomb fire miles away, my thoughts at the moment of explosion are nails suspended in a jar of honey.                             I peel the orange for you, spread the honey on your toast. When our skin touches our atoms touch, their shadows merging into a shadow galaxy. And if echoes are shadows of sounds, if each hexagonal cell in the body is a dark pool of jelly, if within each cell drones another cell—                       The moment the bomb explodes the man’s spine bends like its shadow across the road. The moment he loses his hearing I think you are calling me from across the house because my ears start to ring. From the kitchen window                    I see the lilacs crackling like static as if erasing, teleporting, thousands of bees rising from the blossoms: tiny flames in the sun. I lick the knife    and the honey pierces my tongue:                      a nail made of light. My body is wrapped in honey. When I step outside                                I become fire.            Copyright © 2014 by Sara Eliza Johnson. Used with permission of the author. About This Poem   “While writing ‘Combustion,’ I was thinking about certain theories in physics I’d recently encountered in popular science magazines—about the configuration and transformation of bodies in space-time, and matter’s interconnectivity and fluidity. In particular about quantum entanglement, which is what Einstein called ‘spooky action at a distance’: the power of particles to instantaneously know the states of other particles at vast distances, even across billions of light years. At the same time, I was thinking about the obliteration of bodies, and the safe distance from wartime violence that is afforded most Americans as our drone operations continue overseas. The poem eventually became a convergence of these forces.” —Sara Eliza Johnson   Sara Eliza Johnson is the author of Bone Map (Milkweed Editions, 2014). She lives in Salt Lake City, Utah. Most Recent Book by Johnson   Bone Map (Milkweed Editions, 2014) "My Skeleton" by Jane Hirshfield "Flux" by Afaa Michael Weaver "Anatomy" by Monica Ferrell Poem-a-Day   Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038