AM/FM

Lightning crawled into the house

and shorted out the marriage.

We learned to throw our voices

through the radio, scrabbling through the stations

for songs that sounded like what we wanted

each other to feel. Dylan for anguish.

Sabbath for desire. At dinner,

we were always as silent as prayer

until I passed the playlist around.

Madonna for thanks. Tom Jones

for potatoes. The living room

was littered with records we’d left

for each other, mornings of “Starting

Over” or “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

Only jazz can comprehend a complex heart.

We were daunted by its sophistication

of notes when we slid it on the turntable.

We struggled to find

its melody, its rhythm—anything

to say, Stay. I’ll change.