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Children of Light

(This poem is best viewed on a PC)

Eventually they discovered light was sentient

and wouldn’t go any faster because it didn’t want to.

It loved eyes, their black, their blue, the sensual dilation.

Each image in each brainstem grown from light’s flirtatious heart.

Light doesn’t need us as it lopes across curved spacetime. 

It bathes in its own brightness, heated by each sun.

But it dreams of its children, those swift bursts of neurons

and the thought of a world inside and secret, already far behind.

Noah Berlatsky (he/him) is a freelance writer in Chicago. His first poetry collection, Not Akhmatova (Ben Yehuda Press), is forthcoming.

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