The Learn’d Astronomer on the Radio

Laura Passin

2013 Winner, BLR Prize for Poetry 

***

Given an infinite universe,
given a finite body,
given the bounding constellations
of atoms that trace the flesh,

we must accept, the cosmologist says,
that we are twinned: inside
of infinity, the theory goes,
any finite pattern must

repeat. Even our doubles
are doubled, uncanny almost-selves
with one atom changed, one more
gray hair, one breath not taken.

Our doppelgangers think,
as we do, that their world
is unique; they hear this scientist’s
shadow, the same unearthly lecture,

and think back in our direction,
inhumanly far, across
the dark beyond.
Not beyond: another here.

Through the night-air lives another me,
blonde, maybe, or far-sighted.
There’s a world where I’m kinder,
where I love olives and Oliver Twist.

Light-years away a set of atoms
conjures my mother, awake,
unharmed. She walks
without help; she can speak

a full sentence; she can sign
her name. She will die
of old age. This is certain.
The good doctor tells me so.

My almost mother turns off the radio,
adjusts the light in perfect silence.
She wants to read.
Her daughter writes this down.