Poetry

Radio

Sometimes late at night

I play with my radio,

trying to tune in the dead.

A nine-band Panasonic,

ears on the world,

AM, FM and shortwave.

I believe this is how

those gone will reach me,

thin noise disguised in a song.

So I listen to language

I don’t understand, waiting

for words I know.

New moons are best, dials

are filled. I patiently twirl

up and down.

Old friends will find me,

maybe my mother;

I keep my radio on.

Get the latest essay, memoir, reportage, fiction, poetry and more.

Subscribe to Griffith Review or purchase single editions here.

Griffith Review