Her morning work involves a thunderstorm—
a negative and positive charge make
the lightning blink and thunder shake the room.
She spells cloud “clod.” He says they need a break.
Why does he look outside each time he speaks?
He’s tired. She still has rocket math to do.
Rain on the window threads thick silken streaks—
she asks him why. Because he told her to.
When gusts buffet their backyard’s rotting fence,
she says she wishes Mondays were Mom’s days.
Lightning burns hotter than the sun, they read,
but how do light and sound have their own speed?
Nothing makes sense. She slaps the page. He says
it’s science—why should it make any sense?
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 41 Number 5, on page 36
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