O thou dystopic 
diagram of shadows
wherein we see 
the frame of us and
hunt the breakage.

Where wert thou
hidden, method
and artifact, before
she birthed
and named you?

On the precise
edge of language
changing from reverent
cases and declensions
to scientific lists, and as if
to mark that cross-road
between French élan
and Polish with its 
rubicund elegance
you sit. 

Maria Salomea Skłodowska!
Her name like Revelation’s horn
sprung via Uniwersytet Latający
from under the Russian thumb
to become Madame Curie
wife of Pierre, but you
you were her muse
whispering: Patrzcie!
Maria, Patrz. And Niech 
pani Maria zatańczy.

Let the Lady dance
as if with Red Shoes 
stolen from another wisdom
no less true in Paris or Warsaw:
what you begin to pursue
may in turn capture you. 

Model of womanhood, life given
to something useful: perhaps
her spirit whispers now
in the hum, her touch
soft as lead aprons: Show me
where it hurts. 

Today’s image is by Helga Kattinger, found on the mighty pixabay.com – a beautiful image of the Marie Curie rose.