Chekhov’s Rifle

I take no sides in the Barbie/Oppenheimer wars — if I had to guess, I’d say both movies arrive at the same conclusion, albeit by very different roads — that conclusion being, “our society is somewhat unhinged, and we may want to consider making substantial adjustments, lest we die” — but I will strenuously argue that between Cillian Murphy and Margot Robbie, we are dealing with an overabundance of bone structure. The cheekbones are out of control.

In honor of Cillian’s perfect, chiseled, “whoops, I made a world-ending weapon and now I’m wondering if that was smart or if maybe I’ve doomed my entire species and the surface of this globe to fire and putrifying death” face, I’ve written a little poem for you. See below.

Chekhov’s Rifle

Fermi takes bets in his welder’s goggles

grinning cavalier at cataclysm,

hoping for it maybe.

He hums to his champagne flute

while Oppenheimer glares

allergic to frivolity,

sand mutating into green glass

beneath a sky-high poison plume.

Only Bainbridge has it right,

a man of sense

orbiting the Goldilocks zone

between whimsy and solemnity

when he declares

dagger true

we are all sons of bitches now.