In nineteen and sixty-two,
heads that were filled with sharp numbers, formulas,
an abundance of calculated self confidence,
violent theories that confuse every molecule of my doe-eyed poems,
gathered themselves in a tight-locked room,
to discuss the inner workings, the strands of information,
the fundamentals of all organisms, the incredibly humane
genetic material that created Rosalind Franklin,
the distinctive characteristics allowing her
Delicacy, dignity, a dreamy doe-eyed gaze
and a pretty little head filled with numbers,
and as she twisted and turned in her grave,
the ever-expanding egos belonging to
the men made up of “the stronger stuff”
sold away the “winding staricase” of Rosalind’s mind
“Nineteen and sixty-two”
my seventh grade science teacher repeats.
And the boy who blocks my view
with his head filled with numbers,
scribbles “Watson and Crick” in his notes,
And yet, he does not know.
He will not try to.