Searchlights over Atom City, 1950s  

When a car dealership opened or a carnival came
to the unfarmed fields outside our science town,
the night was full of searchlights — columnar beams
crossing slowly like shining scissors, with a light
that pierced the evening fog, brightening clouds,
and canopies, then tapering softly into space.
We learned this light was measured in candlepower.

Some people in town followed the beams, for fun.
We begged our father to drive us, which he did
one night, and my reference then, staring at lights
from out a backseat window was the three kings
following the star of wonder, star of night,
in the stately, ceremonial minor key
and the pentameter of camels’ hooves.

As our car pulled onto the grassy parking field
we saw the source: a set of carbon arc lamps
the size of kettle drums, on movable gimbals
bolted to a flatbed truck. A customized rig
with operators, men in caps standing watch.
I wonder now why a klieg light rig like that
wasn’t wonder enough for me at the time.

But the ethereal beams that called us into the night
had confirmed in my first philosophy that somewhere
there was a mother ship, alien and angelic,
a radiance fused from science, heaven, knowledge,
and joy. This was the indivisible light from the core —
and could hardly be transported on a flatbed truck
along back roads to towns on blue highways.

It would be some years before I understood
that’s exactly how the radiance is transported,
a perfect example. Just so: the aging woman
steering her skiff across a wine-dark bay;
justices mulling in their impartial robes;
a child turning logic into code;
uncles throwing horseshoes in the shade;
and all those on earth who are traveling light.

First published as “Candlepower,” in Green (Graywolf Press, 1989); revised 2024
Homage Travel Stories & Essays | Poems | Contents at-a-Glance