by Anna Leahy


A star, far, far away,

     moves away, moves away faster

with each passing year, one light-year

     and then a million, the waves of its light

slackening as they go, as the waves come

     toward us, looking, as we do, out there.

Remember your color range, remember your

     rainbow. What might have been purple or green or yellow

far away, long ago, slips closer to red.

     Like a siren, the pitch changing

as it rushes off. A warning, wailing, trailing.

     Redshift reveals distance within time,

the stretching out of space

     in between everything everywhere,

the quickening of expansion.

     We’re all getting carried away.

Farther out, further back, faster—red, red, red.