The Radio Is A Boy

bigbangHe’ll always be
this dark, this sleek, oh switch-
back, switchable, unchanging
changeling, sometimes the strange things
go down. When people talk
about God, I know what they mean:
vaulted, volted, sweet-talked
by the Great Black Unseen—
Radio, Radio, caress me
with end parts, all the bits that make
my heart go bang
the tin clang of pots and pans
the spark of ancient history,
that was 14 billion years ago
or more, forget it ever was
the buzz is busting through
to take me out, tonight,
without a stitch to wear
the static makes a halo
of my hair. The radio
is a boy, a beautiful broken star
hellbent on fuckery
and fame and I love him
I love him, where he goes
I’ll follow, now talk to me,
baby, tell me my name.


About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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