Ethel

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Ethel

Ethel

fearsome+9.jpg — When We Were Fearsome

by
Joanna Penn Cooper
Joanna Penn Cooper is the author of *The Itinerant Girl’s Guide to Self-Hypnosis* (Brooklyn Arts Press); *What Is a Domicile* (Noctuary Press); and *Crown* (Ravenna Press).
Her work has appeared in South Dakota Review, Zócalo Public Square, Open Letters Monthly, Posit, Poetry International, and other journals.
Her digital chapbook of collaborative poems with Todd Colby, *I’m Glad I Know You*, was published by Poetry Crush, and a chapbook of poems with Rebecca Bratten Weiss, *Mud Woman*, is forthcoming from dancing girl press.
Joanna is an editor at Trio House Press and teaches online courses in flash memoir and lyric essay for Creative Nonfiction.
She lives in Durham, North Carolina.

from When We Were Fearsome

When We Were Fearsome

Are atoms made of lots of circles? is the first thing my small son says when he wakes up. My mind swims around, trying to remember if molecules are bigger than atoms. In models of atoms, when they show what
they look like, there are lots of circles, I say.

The new chair of women’s studies at my alma mater is a man. He writes me without using my professional title to ask what I’ve been up to since graduation. His work, the letter says, has been mentioned on NPR.

Quarks? I think, imagining electrons swimming in circles around neutrons.

Before bed, I tell my son a story about when he was a small bear living with his bear family in a remote part of the forest. I describe the white snow, the black branches, the brightness of the cardinal on a top branch who greets him when he leaves his cottage. This is meant to be lulling.

Bears hibernate in winter, he says. Do you want to be hibernating? I say. No! he is seized by a narrative impulse, his little body trembles with it. Tell how I could turn into a polar bear when I was cold and into a fearsome desert bear when I got hot! Tell how surprised everyone was.

I tell all about it, the fearsomeness and the changing fur. How he once sat there half polar and half desert bear, sipping hot cocoa with marshmallows by the cozy fire.

In the morning, I leave my son at school. I am dissatisfied with how they greet him. The teachers do not know of his powers. His fearsome magic. Have a good day, I say, kissing his crown. Have a good Friday at home, he says, following me to the door. Have a good shopping trip.

At home I straighten my bed, turn it down, and slip back in. I lie very still, with pillow levees on either side of my body. My son is safe at
school ... I think. Most likely safe at school ... I try not to think about what the ER doctor said, what machine guns do to human organs. I only tremble a little bit.

A molecule, an atom, a particle, a quark, I think. A mourning dove calls, and it is lulling. Particle was the word that I forgot.

This is what I’ve been up to since graduation.