And so we come to relativity, relativity and a woman.
The title of this seems less than feminist, fortunately (or rather by design) the title doesn't mean what it seems.
In relativity, there's a place called "the elsewhere" it's the bits of spacetime which are far enough from us in space and too close in time for light to make the journey. There isn't enough time. Nothing is faster than light, so the elsewhere is out of reach. No possible information can travel from there to here, so we can't see it; or from here to there, so we can't affect it either.
Note, however, that spacetime is four dimensional. So this doesn't mean there are 3D places that we cannot access. We can see their past and affect their future; it's just an area around the present that's gone missing...
...rather like self-contained woman in this poem. She was here, but now she's off about her own business; maybe she'll be back tomorrow.
Fast woman
Einstein-like, she chooses curves
for living space and all of her free-time;
meanders through the gallery,
coffee in hand, pursues the light. Behind
the paintings shade to infrared;
they glow with ultraviolet light ahead
while all I see is the faintest blur,
a fragile shock-wave in rebounding air
from where she spent a millisecond
staring at Matisse: the dancing one
—imagine:
the daisy-chaining figures spin
faster,
their flesh transformed
to something rich and more robust
to keep breasts rounded
and hands clasped
under stress
of cosmological significance;
picture fauvism
conceding to relativity
a reference frame dragged slowly
to a closed curve
where all there ever was
all there every will be
is the dance—
she leaves a hint of perfume;
a dent that appears
then recoils as suddenly to flatness:
an institutional bench cushion at rest.
