Matka

Madam Curie had two daughters between 
experiments and also won two Nobel prizes. 
What gave her pride the most or is pride the best 

measure? Did she wish every morning for a reason to tarry, 
enraptured by girls breaking toast to birdseed bites? 
Did she love enough each crumb to hurry home 

for the joy of kitchen tables left uncleared, 
for atoms of bread that vibrate Eve and perfect 
jamdrops of Irene? Did she scatter lab notes 

to gather girls up, gripping them tighter than 
a mass of isotopes? Or was she glad 
for Governess who ran the bath and vacuum-

calmed the house as Mama faded into 
titer where she alone could hear the songs 
of elemental isolation. Did 

she think to name a daughter Polonia, or 
sure she was to transmute a better wonder? 
If Irene took up the flute to partner Eve’s 

piano scales would Marie sit with knitting 
in conservatory halls while 
electrometers buzzed and surged for 

other scientists to thrill? Did girls
or radium glow more to
pummel her gut-deep in helpless gratitude?

Heparin Puce

What time is it in twelve-hour shifts? I can’t 
tell with shaft drifts of daylight just half of us get. 

Curtains shuffle breathy conspiracies, lidless
eyes lurk and spook. That’s what night is. Dawn is 

Purell wheezes waving in. Morning whirs the bed.
A march of vials, vitals, seals, and small wax cups. 

Weeks later I still approach bed waiting for instruction 
from a grabbed fist of robe.

.

Kim Suttell writes poems of the unremunerative kind, lives in New York City, and is under the complete sway of her rescue dog. Her poems live at https://page48.weebly.com/