Science Fiction

As the 1920s progressed . . . many amateur radio hams, particularly young boys, still naïve enough not to know any better, [had] the idea that they might . . . make first contact with Mars whilst fiddling about with the dials.

—s. d. tucker

And so it turns out there were two beliefs,both wrong. That their messages might reach Mars.That there were Martians to listen. Andfor most of us, one incorrect assumption is morethan enough. That she still loves himafter all these years. That he doesn’t have a second, secretbank account. And still, their fourteen-year-old son in the atticis happy, working his glowing dials like a high priest.(OK, a third belief: it helps that the atticis “closer to Mars.”) Both parents love this boy,and so it sort of works: they all travel togetherobligingly into the future,with a faith that they’ll find signs of lifeand share some common language.

*

It wasn’t only fourteen-year-olds.Some of “the best minds of today!” suggesteda thousand miles of twenty-five-foot-high mirrorsthrough the Sahara, or great lit trenches shaped like pi,to make contact. “How will we ever knowif we don’t try?” (Cue in the Wright brothers,Galileo, Sojourner Truth.) And in some isotopeof this poem, in some parallel cosmos, the parents

do try—marriage counseling, weekend getaways,prayer; whatever. Maybe there the headlines announceworld peace, and imminent sources of free, clean energyfor everyone. That isn’t this poem,of course; but it’s not an impossible poem—so long as the parallel cosmos exists.

*

Turns out, there are no princesses on Marsor green-skinned warriors. Turns out, Martian scientists aren’telectrifying the skies with atomic-frizzling gizmos.Disappointing. And everybody is born to die, no matterhow much you love them. Very disappointing.The sun too: will die. We could “turns out” ourselvesrepeatedly until we sat here numb to anylilt or prickle, but what’s the point of that?Try this belief: the poor are the Good Lord’s wayof allowing charity. This: in order for Paradiseto arrive, a devastating war or pestilence first needs to undo us.Turns out, there are sillier things than being fourteenin an attic, with a radio, with the belief that there’s a wavelengththat will open you up to the universe.