Prose Poetry and Fiction from Web del Sol

Peter Johnson

Einstein’s Brain

Because of the certitude of death, my human heart, which is always eight- years-old, wept. The doorbell rang and a little man appeared carrying Einstein’s brain in a pickle jar of yellowish liquid. The man was pursuing the seat of genius, so I let him in, resting his jar on my sad, wooden chair. Einstein’s brain looked like everyone else’s, except pieces had been sliced off and wrapped in cheesecloth. I touched the jar for consolation. I touched the jar and wept. “Cheer up,” the man said. “I’m nearly done with my research and the results promise to be inconclusive.”