-Anna Bertha Roentgen, 1885 In physics, x represents the unknown. When Anna’s husband discovered a strange new radiation, he named it and made history’s first image of a living hand: her fingers’ bones and, on the fourth digit, the ring floating, as if around a planet. * When I was six, I unfolded an artist’s rendition of the solar system from the center of an old National Geographic and discovered that the sun would dilate within 5 billion years and overtake the Earth. I couldn’t decide which was worse—this or extinction. * It’s true that scientists apply Latin best. For instance, a dying star’s final breath is a nebula. But my favorite is ex, meaning “lacking” or “out of.” Examples: to extirpate, to exsanguinate. A cell dividing will arrange its chromosomes into a line of exes, a heap of cells, waiting. * On the day when I lay, feet in stirrups, possibly grateful for unconsciousness while the doctor scraped and sucked, what did my mind turn to? I had no dreams. The embryo neither; it lacked half its parts. When I awoke, my heart was still beating too quickly. * Mrs. Roentgen, tell me what future you saw when you first laid eyes on that x-ray— your black bones, your incandescent flesh.
M. Cynthia Cheung is a physician whose writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Dialogist, Palette Poetry, RHINO, Salamander, Sugar House Review, Zócalo Public Square, and others.
**We do our best to preserve the integrity of each poem; however, due to programming limitations, some poems may read differently on a mobile phone and in certain browsers. For best viewing, use Chrome on a desktop/laptop.
I love the clear-eyed look and clean form of this moving poem.