Aha: Atomic Apron
Karen Greenbaum-Maya

Hidden in the fold of the hem are the secrets to the atomic bomb, the equations and transitions that won the war. A white cotton apron, trimmed with satin-stitched wild roses. How can it have gone through the war and still be so pure? And the cloth, gauzy, open-weave, nothing but a net of threads. How did the secrets not leak through? Always the question no one asks out loud: Did that really happen? He’s the one who knows. Archbishop of physicists, seventy years ago they say, he inscribed the breakthrough on the cloth, then stitched it up tight. He is now so famous that credit, blame, renown no longer concern him. All respect is temporary. He knows this, as surely as he knows everything atomic reverts, sooner or later, to hydrogen. Ad infinitum, he will remember the moment when he understood: My God, he’d said, ja mei, mais non, aha..


 

 

 

 

Karen Greenbaum-Maya

is a retired clinical psychologist, German Lit major, photographer, and Pushcart nominee. She no longer lives for Art, but still thinks about it a lot. Real Poem received Honorable Mention in the 2013 Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Contest. Kattywompus Press publishes Burrowing Song and Eggs Satori. Links to on-line poems at: www.cloudslikemountains.blogspot.com/.


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