And though I can’t remember
what I wrote last night, which seems
like ten years ago, I rattle off,
a body at rest remains at rest and
a body in motion remains in motion
until acted upon by an external force,
and then, mid-sentence, I have some small
fantasy about being a body at rest,
a body at rest that stays at rest, a body
at rest that is somehow entirely unacted upon,
not by breakfast, not by school, not by work,
not by mewling cats or errant bears
traversing the porch, not by nightmares
nor bladder nor hot flash nor chill,
and I think to myself that Newton
was really, really on to something,
some sweet world he posits
that I now long for, a world
where a woman might find
such rest, might be such a body.