“Apocalypse Oasis” by Ken-win Jung
It was the twelfth year of the Mayan millennium,
and lurching towards December’s end,
the earth turned,
from global warming to global burning.
The Empire lay shattered,
in scattered fragments,
stinking of pepper-spray
stagnant, but for a few viral fiefdoms
sputtering, in and out, of new alliances —
none of them weathering well
the onslaught of vengeful climate.
And with no Yao or Shun or Yu
or Moses to lead the way,
but only a pale horse
cantering across dried-up sea beds
inundated with desiccated bones
of water-seekers, misled
by fake gods with dousing rods.
And every day, a bloodier battle
for rusty tap . . . or vintage bottle.
Give us this day—our daily drink.
And every day, we drown in dreams.
Delores tells me of her visions.
She sees Laundromats —
like the one she use to use, in the Mission,
around the corner
from the Amnesia Bar.
Weary, I grunt — miles from hearing,
but she talks on and on, never seeming to tire,
of washers and dryers, and all that water —
of coin change, and candy, vending machines
dispensing packets of detergent and bleach
and chewing gum — amidst old issues of
fan magazines and The Kenyon Review.
And once in a while, a drunk stumbles in —
slumps down in a vacant chair and stares
into the swirling eye of a whirlpool dryer.
Hypnotized — he nods off designating
drivers into oblivion.
And once in a while, a dog wanders in and lies down
where it’s warm on the soap-scented floor.
He sleeps a few cycles, from puppy play days
to sly trickster grin,
then wakes with a start —
strrreeetches his bones —
shakes loose his joints!
Then saunters out the laundry door
and disappears in the midday sun.
And once in a while, a crazy old lady,
dying of dementia, plays dimes in the slot
of each hazy machine.
And cycling back
to check on her winnings,
finds a dryer with clothes in it now,
and cries out, “I won, I won!”
and scoops them all up and carries them home.
“I won, I won” she tells Delores,
who gives her a hug and says, “That’s fine, Ma,
you always were the lucky one”
and puts her to bed, and sorts them all out.
Boxer shorts and houndstooth trousers,
but, varicose hose? . . . floral blouses? . . . Ah,
nursing bras . . . baby diapers — and grandpa’s too.
Must be Maya’s load.
She folds them neatly, into a large wicker basket,
then carries them back to the Laundromat,
where Maya sits waiting
by empty dryer with open door,
reading Neruda’s “Ode to My Socks.”
She never complains, she knows Ma from
way back when — before the Alzheimer’s came.
Surrounded by swirling sheets, in billowing warmth,
Delores, too, remembers
a girlish figure, framed in summer sun:
Ma — hanging laundry out on the line.
Lulled by the rhythm of laundry machines
drumming bubbles and suds into the dry desert air,
she closes her eyes and dreams of someday
owning her own machines
and all that water.
Softly— she sighs a wafting sirocco
blowing puffs of sand
through her parched eye sockets.
Her sun-bleached skull goes tumbling
down the steep dune
and gives up her ghost
at the rattle of bone striking bone.
Copyright © 2012, Ken-win Jung