Trembling Between Plagues in Los Angeles

Flinging verses into the future like upbraided cobblestones...

But first, a plug. Starting now, and for the month of October, new paid subscribers to That Ellipsis… will get 25% off a yearly subscription. That’s 40 dollars for a yearly subscription instead of 50. Even better, those who opt for a Founding Member subscription will get a half-off price, paying 100 up front rather than 200. So if you’ve been waiting to read my Barbenheimer review, my thoughts on movies about terrible rich people, or if you’re hoping to get access to my upcoming post on the rising of the bears, now is the perfect time. And now, read this poem. Shana Tova.

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1. Ink

She walked outside today, past a row of crumbling homes:
cracked paint, rotting wood, broken windows, dead, overgrown lawns.
The street here is easy to miss,
signs obscured by overpasses, twists blocked by blinding glass.

Those who’ve sat here long enough know the lives that have washed through.
She knows she’ll always feel them. Some arrived floating aimlessly at sea,
tales of tank treads that swallowed people whole.

Some came via desert and river, water cooling their blistered skin.
Others were born and never had any plans to leave, until they did.
Raised children, mourned parents, wore scuffmarks into the linoleum and hardwood floors.
Made meals for each other. Babysat their children.

She takes a book from the shelf, pen in hand, and makes another inscription on the title page.
She leaves the words to dry on the table before walking out the front door.

2. Breath

There isn’t air to go round, hoarded by faulty ventilators, and fires on the chaparral.
Whenever it rains, neighbors rush out their front doors to breathe it in,
gasping cool, fresh, rare, and evaporating.

Everything is exposed in the light, vulnerable.
The sun blinds, but also sterilizes. At least for a time.

Along the street, people mill around,
shuddering, waiting, their necks craning upward,
praying for another storm. Quietly to herself, she recites the shema. 

Ghosts are just pain and trauma, trapped in rocks.

3. Sand

She traces her finger along the sidewalk, up to the end of the street.
Listening, asking questions.

What is the difference between prayer and incantation?
She chants both into the ground, just to be safe. Nobody answers.
For five thousand years, nobody has answered.

Some places you can dig, but not here. We need the soil to soften.
Claw at it hard enough, squeeze the cold layers of deep time between your fingers.
Just don’t breathe in. Valley fever lives in the dirt.

4. Ash

There’s smoke above the Hollywood sign. At night it glows orange and red.
It will be ten days before the flames stop,
and still it stands, waiting for some new stranger to look up
and wonder why this landmark manages to endure
while so many others have become memories.

There’s a man dragging his swollen feet up Fairfax, a guitar slung over his shoulder.
His stomach is empty today (though no emptier than it normally is).
His name is crumpled in a nearby tent.

Catching the eye of the rabbi, he frantically renounces everything he’s had to remember,
flinging verses into the future like upbraided cobblestones,
against the door of every holy house slammed in his face.

The rabbi is unfazed. ‘What took you so long?’ she asks.
Then she smiles, wrinkles framing her eyes.
‘We’re always in need of people like you.’ She touches his arm. In that instant,
he sees what he’s always hoped, but never searched for.

5. Wax

This city… 

This monument of talking corpses, Babylonian trials, and dried-up rivers. 

There are few places to grieve, and even fewer to repent.
Anything that might exist long enough is quickly cordoned off and forgotten. 

By the time we remember it’s just been paved over.

Closing the door behind her, the rabbi takes a moment
to notice the shadows cast through the window.
Outside, tree branches burrow through concrete. 

Outside, every scream is an audition, every grave diagnosis a chance to build an audience.
In the midst of this, she can’t tell him whether the fires or the sickness will get him,
the swords or the police batons, stupidity or old age. 

Will he grow roots or wander? Have peace or torment? Music or hunger?

Somewhere, searching, she knows, but can’t say.

Gently, she blots the ink, closes the book, and places it back on the shelf 

to collect dust for another year.