Picnic

Remember the afternoon we spent

on Tesla-9?

It was after the accident.

(Are you, like me, measuring time now

before and after the accident?)

We didn’t know what would

become of us,

but they were still investigating,

and for the moment we were both free.

You came to my quarters,

armed with a picnic basket of all things,

and asked if I wanted to go

have some lunch in the desert.

I had been lying in bed all day,

trying to read a book

but getting stuck on the same paragraph

at the top of page 48.

I guess I was trying to practice

for extended confinement.

Every time I closed my eyes,

I smelled the acrid smoke 

and heard the echoes of screams.

“Isn’t there supposed to be

an acid storm?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” you shrugged.

“No, not really,” I replied.

If we had wanted to have

a nice picnic,

under a blue “sky,”

sitting on soft green turf,

watching the kids fly their aerokites

and chasing the Teslan spotted geese,

we would have gone to the park

in the center of the biodome,

but we would have been vulnerable

to staring, angry eyes,

insults muttered under our neighbors’ breath,

perhaps hurled at us at top volume,

perhaps even garbage thrown at us,

or other types of violence…

we had experienced it all before.

The yellow desert, with its acid rain

and iron vipers and venomous spitting hawks,

was silent and peaceful

and oddly forgiving.

We took your cruiser,

turned the radio off

and hovered in silence.

You stared straight ahead,

and I stared out the window to my right.

The farther we got out of the city,

the easier it was to breathe.

It was easy to forget how heavy

was the guilt sitting on my chest

every waking moment.

“It was an accident,” you’d remind me.

I’d remember to exhale.

That day, you rested your hand

lightly on my knee,

and we ate standard ration sandwiches—

I think egg salad and chicken were our choices—

and we watched the lightning dance on the horizon.

The raindrops fell on us,

a sizzling sound on our desert exploration suits.

“We’d better get back into the cruiser,” I said.

And you agreed.

Suddenly, you grabbed my arm and held me back.

“Wait!” you cried.

I realized that I had been just about to step

right on the back of a spiny shrieker,

which was fleeing the storm.

The spines on its back would have gone

right through my boot,

piercing the sole of my foot

and releasing its deadly venom.

And I would have been dead in minutes,

if not for you.

And it was not the first time you had saved me.

So if you ever wondered,

that was the moment I made up my mind.

A few days later, when I was interrogated,

I took all the blame and told them of your bravery,

told them that you were too humble

to take credit for anything positive

that came out of the accident.

You were too good a leader

and wanted to take responsibility.

So in the end, you were promoted,

which you deserved.

I was administratively reassigned

after a brief confinement.

I guess I deserved that too.

Now I’m on a planet

with endless diamond rain,

so I don’t get much fresh air these days,

but when I close my eyes,

I see the yellow cliffs in the distance,

one sun setting as the other rises,

your hand resting gently on my knee.