Dear Stephen Hawking, if the faster
an object moves, the heavier it
becomes, you can imagine,
the weight a life gains as it speeds
ever faster towards its point of
origin, its home
squalor of children and dogs
a couch that smells like cat
early on, you learn to love outside
yourself and then to pull it back
in, like a string of spit gliding towards
the floor; what remains inside remains
sacred; what falls out picks up dirt and
can be observed; at all costs, do not let
your mother attend the choral event
in her peach, polyester slacks and
pigeon-toed walk; you are a star, meant
to shine brighter than all
the TVs lighting up this town
something most people don’t even notice
as a singular object, but together with
the rest of those luminous bodies
you make dark bearable

Dawn Tefft | Mudlark No. 29
Contents | Dear Neuroscientist