say kyrie, say coracle, say curette
cure us, priest, of our oohs & aahs
care for us lest we care for ourselves
crying humbles us, though some of us
never do it, never let the knee
touch the ground, even when
it’s only the mirror watching — what
did Marie Curie think of her burned fingers
what salve, what excuse allowed her
to spurn pain, to visit her lab at night
— ah, the luminous glowing vials —
to dare more damage every day
chemist, carousel, calliope
each poet turns her face inside
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