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.