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The Valley of No Radio
The accordion’s reeds collapsed into static
as I crested the hill into the Valley of No Radio.
I had been listening to the station of the dead:
the rock ‘n’ roll boys bending their beautiful guitars a faded seductress batting her tambourine someone, possibly my grandad, on the electric organ with a sound like singing dust. There are no ads on that station. No one speaks. Between songs is a long pause. I hadn’t found it before, I haven’t since.
The valley propped itself up on its elbows
the sun sucked out the patches of night. All the frequencies in the air had been sucked out too leaving a clean silence and the fog around the village.
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