Mudlark Flash No. 120 (2018)

Albert Einstein and Marilyn Monroe: Postcards
by Sarah Koenig

Dear Albert,

I’m writing because I hoped you could shed
some light on my feeling of lightlessness. 
I saw a glint in your eye when we crossed
paths the other day and I thought
you’d have something to say.


Dear Marilyn,

You have the light on inside you already — 
all 10,000 lumens — and are standing by
the switch.


Dear Albert,

The light that shines on me comes from the flash
of cameras and other mirrors. I was looking
for something less ephemeral, the kind of light
that could power a star from one end of the galaxy
to the other.


Dear Marilyn,

I wish I had your external glow. All my light
happens in synapses. I can barely match
two socks. And nobody wants to take my picture.   
 

*  *  *


Dear Albert,

Have you noticed? When they photograph 
me I am always alone — riding some foamy
wave or biting an apple. In your pictures 
you pose in front of bushes with women
and children, gather close with prisoners.
What’s your secret?
 

Dear Marilyn,

I do my best work in solitude. I wish I had 
the time to ride waves, stand over a subway
grate — to befriend atoms, particles, 
waves of light.


*  *  *


Dear Albert,

I glanced into a cup of tea today
and wondered about the light at the bottom
of the cup — how it travels through liquid
from one place to another. Can you elucidate?


Dear Marilyn, 

The light is hitting the camera of your eye.
It’s significant because for once
you’re on the other side of the lens.


Dear Albert,

I did always want to be a creator
of stars. You feel much closer
to that than I do.


Dear Marilyn,

Stars are neither born nor die. 
Keep that in mind when your light
starts to flicker.


Sarah Koenig’s poetry has appeared in Crab Creek Review, Raven Chronicles, The Far Field, Hummingbird, Tinderbox, Pamplemousse, City Arts, Pageboy, and Calyx. It has also appeared in Washington 129, an anthology of Washington state poets, and on King County transit as part of the Poetry on Buses project. 

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