Scientific

Donna Vorreyer

The girl posits theorems, dissects her vegetables. She whispers
apologies to motes on her lashes when applying mascara.  She
recites the periodic table in the shower. She can make a potato
clock, but she prefers digital. She collects dirt from wherever
she travels, labels latitudes and longitudes from memory. She’s
concocting a cure for shyness in her bedroom, using mice and
Guinness and Daft Punk songs. When her heart gets broken,
she knows this term is inaccurate. Instead, she transcribes each
moment of goodbye, translates it to numerals, calculates the
half-life of this harm.