At the campfire, Sam’s father
tells me that Newton’s Second Law
is not always true. I add it to
my growing list of rules to not
depend on. Let’s say in this equation,
the woman is the mass. This is,
of course, a private joke, and
she can laugh about how inconsistent
the mass might be. Fix her to a moment, then,
say that Sunday morning when her kitchen
smelled of apples simmering whitely on the stove,
the steam of the giant canning pot filled
the room with warmth. Let’s say the force
is the voice of the man as he says
the words he knows she hates to hear.
The force is soft spoken and low. Then a equals
the increasing rate at which the woman’s heart races
then runs from the room, though her body still stands
behind the green counter, stirring the simmering fruit.
And a is the increasing rate at which her tears fall.
And a is the rate of the wind as it moves the storm closer
to the walls of the house where the kitchen is warming.
And a is the rate at which the mass learns yet again
that she must be her own bliss.
And what has happened to value m? There is less
of her now than the equation might suggest.
I believe you, I say to Sam’s dad. The fire
snaps between us. The leaves rustle
in the wind. In a perfect world, I could
measure them. In a perfect world, I wonder
what happens to the force.