Saeed Jones
Jezebel's FM Radio
I am breaking under the weight of torch songs
sung so low that dogs have to hold their breath just to hear
the flames whistling, the tune of desperation simmering,
a quiet heat that crawls into bed at inappropriate hours
like a cheating husband just before his sets his marriage on fire.
Some rhythms are played to distract us from others, he will say
as he scoops his wife's breasts into his hands, holding them
like two piles of ashes as he tries to kiss away his lover's scent.
I am in the business of collecting rare and used frequencies.
The beat of Saturday nights spent rocking back and forth
beside a nearly blown out speaker with my ears tuned
to the hum of bizarre stations, the few strings remaining
of former lifetimes, memories waiting for me to push
their buttons. Two clicks to the left and the moon is chewed up
and swallowed by your greedy eyes. We're driving toward a field
where dogs are howling as I feed you a helping of fingers.
Your kisses land upon my free hand like seven veils,
then a plague of locusts. Your mouth wants too much of me.
I wince, returning my hand to the wheel as I pump the gas
propelling the car toward a field full of barking.
Two more clicks, a shadow stares at pictures of you before
crushing them in a fist of blackness. Your many mangled faces fall
to the carpet. Even here, the music keeps a steady moan
going just under the skin. There's a genocide of you happening
on my bedroom floor and all I can think about is locusts, the incredible buzz
they must make when they descend upon a green field.
I can almost hear the roar as I reach for my matches.
Two more clicks, just static, the sound of snow falling on a burning city.
Now, we hear the peculiar hum of the present moment: when your wife
turns over in bed, and in spite of your furious kisses, smells me on you.