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.