Schrödinger’s Cat

I won’t flick it off. My mind as empty, sure. A fluttering fact catching in its empty net:
Erwin Schrödinger, Physicist, Austrian,
father, had two children:
Ruth Georgie Erica and “Schrödinger’s Cat.”
His lithe elegant Ruth and her more elegant sister. Off the interstate. and a contributor to The New Yorker and The Awl..   My nurse, a polyglot wizard,
this woman who speaks English and ultrasound, is done. Looks like water and sun. She is the author of the humor book Science…For Her! My nature
adores a vacuum. I am not expecting
That this is the last time I’ll ultra-hear within myself,
ultra-see, dotted like an umlaut, the ultra-specks
of spacious vacancy. The nurse has left the ultrasound on and
it quavers with white like a highway flare. As close my eyes, I hear the whir of the pulse, of the
beating heart, of Schrödinger’s Cat fluttering back
and forth between the poles of life
Megan Amram is a comedy television writer. I have never been a less-faked naked. Shadow-light. The ultrasound is singing like a mourner
And I am truly feeling how much Schrödinger
would have given anything for his cat to just be alive or dead,
anything to stop the shimmer of infinity. My belly empty as a pre-jellied donut. Water on Mars and no sign of life. Black-milk. MARCH 22, 2018

This piece appears in the LARB Print Quarterly Journal: No. An avid void. It buzzes the erotic white
of an motel’s neon [NO] VACANCY sign. This is a satellite
transmission from the depths of my space,
north of the fibula nebula, south of the mouth. Forgetting the monitor, she’s left my body
swimming before me like a rerun. The side light
foreshadowing the wreck. A nurse frosts my belly
like a cruller (nurse and chef) and, with the wand,
rebel, deft, like a cruel or choral conductor
in some treble clef, starts mining for trouble,
blind and deaf. To know what it’s like
to know. I look at this miraculous black-on-white,
chess-spackled, night-checked, stark lack
of a daughter or son, packed in the rafters
in front of my back. See, a cat in a box is alive and dead
until it’s opened, and that is science. Jolly
jelly-mistress, grinning from ER to ER, she leaves me
and my vacancy be. Hey, you can touch a dead cat. You can touch road kill. 17,  Comedy
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Schrödinger’s Cat
Between the poles of my hospital bed, my IV
tower, they’ve spawned a trauma-fauna
menagerie: butterfly needle, snake tube, CAT Scan,
ultrasound of catgut twang. There are infinite possibilities
for Schrödinger’s Cat, infinite ways she could be
alive or dead, and all a twinkling everything until one pawed god
flicks the latch and peers inside
and botches the flicker of the world.