Guest writer Marissa’s poem, “Why I Don’t Date Engineers,” in The Elixir.
Sir Isaac Newton sat under an apple tree
and found refuge from me and my fury
at his economical ordering of a whiskey sour
and pondered hackneyed:
the word he’s used to describe I love you,
which one shouldn’t say too much.
I’d wanted to hear them.
I wanted to hear those hackneyed words
every goddamn day
while he played a banjo outside my window
preferably in the rain,
and I wanted them carved in a tree trunk,
in every tree trunk in the fucking forest
while he skipped about like Orlando in Arden
at the mere thought of it,
and he did not know why,
when the apple knocked him on the head,
he felt his eyes well
the moment he knew
we fall because our mass and the earth’s mass
are inversely proportional
to the square of the distance between us.