On First Looking Through the Webb Telescope
A poem by Gail White

On First Looking Through the Webb Telescope

I was consoled for turning into dust
by thinking it the dust of vanished stars
and not the stuff the vacuum cleaner sucks
out of the rug – while knowing what we are:
A sack of briefly animated bones,
organs a gun can turn to shepherd’s pie,
a skin that keeps the pushing blood at home,
a brain that trundles sight into the eye.
And now I look back 13 billion years,
through space, through time, through eons of unrest,
through gatherings of iridescent tears:
Oh Mr. Webb, it’s an addictive quest,
better than video games, wilder then porn,
to witness stars – or angels – being born.

About the Author:

Gail White, a contributing editor to Light Poetry Magazine, has been writing poetry since she learned to print. Her latest chapbook, Paper Cuts (Kelsay Books), was nominated for the Eric Hoffer Award. She lives in the Louisiana bayou country with her husband and cats. Her biggest current worry is the high price of boiled crawfish.

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