I switch on the shiny radio hidden under
my pillow, & turn down the volume.

My bed smells like a grass sack of yellow
canning pears, as I wonder if my mama

will ever come home again. This radio
she gave me always casts a good signal

upon the dark night, a slow gray mist
in dank air, a whippoorwill’s signifying

down by the gully of tin cans. Earlier,
I was about to put down my left foot

as the rust-colored water moccasin
writhed there, making a muted noise

in the tinny slush. I saw & didn’t see.
I almost fell, but somehow my hand

grabbed-up a long heavy oak branch.
I was eleven & could hit hard as a man.

A bloodless thing laid there, the sun
setting. I went to my persimmon tree.

Grandma Elsie said she could see me
from the backdoor, & she asked, What

song was you singin’? I said, My own
words. She said, Next thing you be

wantin’ a lowdown guitar. Oh, yeah,
I was once hypnotized by fingers on

a banjo. Now, go wash your hands,
come in here, & say the Lord’s grace.

After my supper & a bath in a #3 tub,
I read twice Paul Laurence Dunbar’s

“We Wear the Mask.” I kneeled,
said the Lord’s prayer, & then crawled

into bed. I could feel the radio under
my head as I played the same yes & no

game, as if letting a talisman decide
my Fate. My fingers could always

touch the dial in the dark, seeking
one of the two stations in my head:

Fats’ “Blueberry Hill” on WWOZ
or bluebird at the Louisiana Hayride,

calling “I’m so lonesome I could cry.”
If Daddy Red would’ve gone there—

yes, something was in his blue eye
& gray eye that would’ve stopped

any disbeliever back then. Wesley
was his real name—a black man

who looked white, my step-grandpapa,
who’d say, “It’s alright to call

your mama’s name in your sleep,
even if she’s pickin’ Pima cotton

in Phoenix.” I still love any ballad
with a little dirt on raggedy roots,

even if it was Rose & her brothers
sleeping in concrete culverts in L.A.

Years later, the blue radio traveled
with me, truly a crystal-clear sound

all its own. I don’t believe in good
luck charms & magical potions, but

I took my radio with me to Chu Lai.
Why not? It had already traveled

like an old friend over to Panama
to jungle warfare school, a Saturday

I danced among tall trees. In fact,
it seems to have a mind of its own.

One night, I thought of my mama
when I didn’t wish to, & in my hands

was a screwdriver, & as I opened it up
I noticed how my small blue box didn’t

have wires, components, or numbers.
But It did have these words: Beware.

Raise a first & last question, praise
silence, & put flesh on every word.

If you love playing Country & Blues,
this unit will plug directly into you.