Member Poem

Calculated

Everyone takes her measure
as Candela enters the room,
her dress a nebula, airy with valences.
(Lady Calorie Langley frowns, mutters
behind her fan to her loyal Slyke.)
Candela's joules are breathtaking
- the bracelet of twinking amperes,
and at her throat, a huge, flawless erg.
At her side is Petri Faraday, Count of Volt,
drinking tola and admiring the lustre
of the coulombs in his beloved's hair.
They tread a measure in the dance:
a rundlet, an edison, a quire.
He asks after her pet picomoles,
Mips and Mutchkin, and she laughs.
(The anarchist Smoot looks on in
jealous frustration. He sees the sea-miles
in her eyes; knows she will never smile
at him.)
Supper is laid on the periodic table:
centipawns in ream sauce, charka-baked
mease, sweet poiseuilles, endless magnons
of sparkling lanac. A violinist plays
Mercalli and mournful Danfon,
who are as fashionable as silken ells,
furlong boots and polished acre.
More dancing follows, and Candela flings
herself into a wild legua.
At midnight she calls loudly for her furman
to bring round the carriage; but as she
passes Faraday, she furtively slips her cordel
into his hand. He nods very slightly,
inhaling her scent of centibar.
Tonight's moment will be lepton.
C'est la crore.

This poem first appeared on Eye to the Telescope.