Silent Running
Isn’t it transcendently silly
that the Navy would recondition
a nuclear sub of the mightiest, the
Ohio (a plaque says) class,
to be run by one man,
a clandestine complement
of robots, and an AI who so far
keeps its own counsel? I’m the man,
I intuit the others. I roam the empty bunks,
touch the giant gleaming empty
cookpots, eat what I find
in freezers. Breathe substandard air,
adjust to the noise of motors (and reactor?)
and nightly low red light. Pretend to interpret
screens that show how deep we are
and how swift. I wonder if, somehow,
I rebelled, disposed of my comrades,
and, if so, what was my rank?
(If it were true, would I assume the lowest,
and feel this imaginative grief?)
In a locker I find an immaculate, pressed
uniform. It fits.
In mirrors I address myself as Lieutenant Commander.
Sit by what I’ve recognized as
a radio, waiting for someone to
identify, extract, forgive an obvious
civilian. (Even at the cost
of lifelong secrecy, surveillance,
threat? I would bear them gladly…)
But what if I’m legitimately
here? What if the famous ritual
(that makes everything all right)
of two officers responsively reading
a text, inserting and turning
keys to launch twenty ICBMs
I always feel at my back, wherever I am,
were no longer needed—only me?
I wait to be told to turn my key.
My only hope is that the order comes
from elsewhere, and the missiles, when they fall,
emit little sighs
and raise the dead, not create new ones.