Category: Poetry and Other Writing

What hap­pens when you take apart a radio? You get pieces of a radio and no music.
Me

He found it half-buried in the sand.
It looked like an old argument.
It still glowed green when he 
plugged it in and for a moment
all was well.

But its static ate at talk
like ocean surf eats sand yet 
unpleasant so many
short staccato bursts from
gulls claiming turf clamoring
for that broken receiver revealed by
undertow.

His wife said it's broken.

To fix it
he plants transistors
in his brow furrows tongue between
teeth tip out of mouth the
chance of rain concentrate ear perks
for the sound of unfurling first sprouts
the year it takes the earth to exhale.

His wife can tell
his scent has changed replaced by
the tang of hot wiring above his eyes a
range of antennae move when he is not
speaking he never speaks now nor
goes to field or shore anymore his eyes
centerscreen dots 
of an old TV

a night arrives-
he dies starven eyes blinded with tears
his widow unscrews his head and throws
it from the window to shatter among
the thyme. Just enough peace for one 
last night in his arms. 

The next morning her garden is filled 
with radio towers, red lights
wink at her from the clouds.

Her foot upon a first strut-
hand upon a stanchion-
she does not climb but turns
and stumbles over 
a hill to
sit
where

they used to
listen
to 
the 
sea.