Relativity | Sarah Howe

for Stephen Hawking

When we wake up brushed by panic in the dark our pupils grope for the shape of things we know.
Photons loosed from slits like greyhounds at the track reveal light’s doubleness in their cast shadows
that stripe a dimmed lab’s wall—particles no more— and with a wave bid all certainties goodbye.
For what’s sure in a universe that dopplers away like a siren’s midnight cry? They say
a flash seen from on and off a hurtling train will explain why time dilates like a perfect
afternoon; predicts black holes where parallel lines will meet, whose stark horizon even starlight,
bent in its tracks, can’t resist. If we can think this far, might not our eyes adjust to the dark?

Imagen de portada: Smoking Spaceman Robot, Horikawa, ca. 1950. Fotografía de DJ Shin CC