Читать книгу Twisted Shapes of Light - William Jolliff - Страница 10

I never said it was possible, I only said it was true.

—Sir William Crookes, 1832–1919

Say your brother died of some disease.

It could’ve been anyone, anything,

but the brother was Philip, and you were close,

and the disease was yellow fever.

What would you do?

Become yourself in time,

president of the Chemical Society,

the Association for the Advancement of Science,

even the Royal Academy—

the circle that, forty years before,

had shunned those desperate studies

closest to your heart, even after you’d given

them thallium, tagged and weighed.

You surely loved your poisons, especially that:

so blue, so soft it leaves its mark on paper,

but a signature so pale you can’t be sure,

always sure, you see it.

And you would invent the radiometer,

the Crookes tube, the spinthariscope,

discover cathode rays, and even be knighted—

but not until you’d spoken with Philip

once, then sought him again through every

channel in England—even Florence Cook—

and discovered that the medium is almost,

but not always, the message.

And you wouldn’t have believed Miss Cook

had the proof not been your own cameras,

your laboratory, your 44 pictures

of pretty Katie King,

the most desirable of spirit guides.

What did Philip think?

You died a knight at 86.

Some brothers live longer than others,

but we all spend good years chasing the dead.