on air 

underneath the earth
i used to work for a radio station
& we'd take a metal elevator 
to sink deeper into the dirt
to dig for microphones. shovel to
coal. a black chamber for smearing
our fingers culling for a good
wire to start with. we could feel
the listeners call in as the tunnel shook
with wanting-- as their questions 
burned in our throats like matches 
had been struck against our tongues.
someone told me when i was small
that i had the voice of a radio &
so i followed it this far & i practice 
my voice in the elevator with that other
people who have shows to broadcast.
we never talk to each other--
we talk over & over & over 
competing for the boldest sound
in the shaft. no one listens to radio
anymore so we have to talk to ghosts
& rocks. surprisingly the rocks are
usually the ones with questions.
they ask who are you?
who gave you a tongue?
what kind of stone did you use
for your teeth?
i respond a piece of word
it dropped from a cloud
limestone & slate.
on a bad day i might just talk into
the microphone & pretend i'm alone
in a room with my dad
& i tell him i want him 
to tune in-- to put this head
to the floor of the earth & 
ask me question after question 
about my life. who doesn't want to 
be the subject of an interview?
i press the microphone into 
the skin of my arm,
the tops of my feet-- i feel
the texture of that mesh before
re-burying the device.