Proof of Blurriness
Erika Luckert
Hubble Space Telescope, 1990
When an object is held just too close
to your eye, it gains a fringe of galaxies
along its edges. Consider that this
may be the proof that those edges do not exist
at all, that the petal of an aster doesn’t end
where it meets the air, that a root doesn’t
end where its tendrils meet the soil.
Isn’t blurriness a sign that we’re getting closer?
We spent three years grinding glass and polishing
the hope that we might see
something farther away than any eye.
After we cast that marble into space
we found out it had cataracts. This is how
we approach the unknown—glass thrown
into orbit and blurring.
The only way a camera can find your face
is by mapping the edges and the eyes.
I paint my pores so that they blur
into my skin, then outline my eyes to sharpen them.
All the machines are nearsighted now
and celestial bodies move too fast—
the distances accelerate and
these telescopes are just
like us, they too are unlikely to last.
Erika Luckert is a poet, writer, and educator. A graduate of Columbia University’s MFA in Poetry, Erika has taught creative and critical writing at public schools and colleges across New York City. Originally from Edmonton, Canada, Erika is currently a PhD student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.