Marie spends more months checking numbers
that stand for the depth of water, weather, the time of day,
and the speed of the ship when the soundings were taken.
Some equations sprawl. Others stick,
so she circles back to the beginning,
which holds what she needs to know.
Signs of a cavern
about twenty miles wide and a mile deep remain.
Science leans on facts, but new ideas begin in spaces between,
with guesses bouncing between right and wrong.
Did land pull apart leaving a crevice or break,
spewing rubble that formed mountains?
She shows Bruce her maps and figures.
I think this is where continents broke apart.
Marie, no one will take you seriously if you talk like that.
Bruce crumples a wad of paper, then throws it at the wall.
Don’t shout. It’s bad for your heart.
She glances at the pocket of his floral-print shirt,
where he keeps a pillbox.
Even if the theory of continental drift is sound,
no one wants to hear it, he says. Nobody wants
to think of land as something that can break apart.
That happened millions of years ago, Marie says.
People shouldn’t worry their houses will drop into the sea.