stephen hawking

when the universe burst into being,
it did so not like a spring rose, but
voraciously.
when physicians gave you two years
to live, you were my age,
white chalk dusting your hands,
mud on your shoes, the universe
burning burning burning
in your eyes.
it hummed inside your blood
for 55 more years, & isn’t that as breathtaking
to witness as the fizzing out of a black hole
or the shivering of cambridge streets in the rain?
i wonder how you felt
at the sight of the frosted flowers on your wedding
cake or the warmth of your daughter’s lips
kissing your cheek or first time you heard your binary
voice speak to everyone in that heavy
american tongue.
when you unhooked
yourself from your chair and tried out
that anti-gravity chamber in florida,
did you glow like a reborn star,
suspended in your own wild capability?
how about when a primary school student
told you that because of a brief history of time
they tacked glow in the dark stars
all over their bedroom ceiling in the shape of
constellations? i know you don’t believe in
heaven, but if there is a heaven for you,
let it be made of all the galaxy’s
primordial wonders.
let it be made
of every secret whispered by the big bang.
let it be made of
weightlessness,
laughter, dancing.