A Deserter
I was killing time in Long Beach during
the first disasters, thinking how
the past tense and the distinction “early”/“late”
are a defense; as if the history
we are could take a breather in
the notes of a historian.
I sat on a bench in a once-deadly park,
now no more so than other places;
the sirens weren’t coming for my beer.
A tanker glowed on the horizon,
had burned a week, but the wind had shifted;
the night was almost still, there was almost air.
In the weeds opposite a vortex formed
and someone stepped from it and looked around
beneath the weight of helmet, pack, and what
I took to be a shoulder-mounted laser.
I offered her some beer. She didn’t
sit, spoke only telepathically
(I sensed it was a combat skill,
not to be wasted on emotion). The future, she said,
is exponentially worse,
but she was almost safe now – two more hops;
looked forward, in fact, to the Lindy Hop
and the clubs on Central Avenue. I asked
if I might see her face. For a moment
as her tunnel reformed she raised
that intimidating visor. I could see
betrayal, ravage, rage, no room for beauty.