Between 98.3 and Nowhere

At 2:17 a.m. I turn the kitchen radio

past weather, war,

a man selling heaven in twelve easy payments.

~

Between 98.3 and nowhere,

the room hatches electric insects—

tiny teeth chewing the dark.

~

I say your name.

The static says every name at once.

The dead, apparently,

have terrible reception.

~

You died on a Tuesday—

an administrative little day,

bins at the curb,

milk souring politely in the fridge.

By Wednesday, your number belonged

to a silence with customer service.

So I keep tuning.

shhh—

~

The hairs along my arm rise like believers.

Blue sparks rehearse between my fingers

and the metal sink.

For one obscene second

the whole house wants to touch me.

~

A woman laughing in another city.

shhh—

~

A ship reading weather

from a sea I will never see.

shhhhh!

~

Then three wet syllables—

almost your voice,

almost my hunger wearing it.

~

Grief is a cheap ventriloquist:

every coincidence on its knee,

your voice shoved into its mouth.

~

Scientists found an infant universe

inside a stubborn hiss—

old light worrying their antenna,

creation refusing a clean exit.

~

Which is almost tender:

nothing shuts up completely.

Birth keeps leaking through the walls.

Even absence has a frequency.

will you—be quiet—

~

At dawn the station arrives clean—

traffic, markets, another war.

The ordinary world muscles in,

well-rested and innocent.

I turn the dial back

until language breaks.

please—

~

There.

—did you catch that?

The charged little animal between them,

your almost,

my almost,

alive enough

to bite.

~

I let it.

.