Vera wanders past a closet where old sandbox toys
mix with sneakers, rubber boots that probably fit nobody,
hammers, split rocks, a jump rope with silver bells
on the handles, butterfly nets
made from bent coat hangers, sticks, and netting.
In the dining room her collection of old globes
show changes in what’s known of earth and sky.
It’s two o’clock in the morning, but she goes upstairs
and wakes up Bob. He’s more handsome than ever
with silver streaking his black hair. She says,
I found evidence of dark matter.
Enough to publish and persuade skeptics.
I always believed. Bob throws back the covers.
What has it been, fifteen years of work?
What kind of celebration can measure up to that?
None. That’s why one had better love her work.
Bob gets out of bed, heads to the kitchen,
takes a tub of ice cream from the freezer and two spoons
from a cluttered drawer. Vera turns off all the lights.
They sit on the porch steps,
eating while looking up at the sky.
After all those years of long late nights,
she understands that most of the universe
is made of dark matter. Most of the universe is unknown.
Like the necessary pulse between notes of music,
the darkness between stars is as important as the stars.