Radio is where she lives.
She can die and still ride up the soil into the speaker.
The booming bass is her.
The shadows cast light,
the past proves the present.
Six feet below on a Wednesday morning in July
but by ten o’clock at night,
she’s soothing my sleep into dreams.
And the media merely prints prison bars
and failed marriages and drug habit.
As if the music dies like newsprint.
No, resurrection is its charm.
So, once more, a body’s interred
while a good time plays
its heart out.
About the contributor: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and Roanoke Review.