Page 7 - WDickinson_Blackwell_Submission

Radioman, tell me if you hear the signal among the noise

Red dusted boots on pot-hole road. He comes home, kicks feet up on La-Z-Boy. Remembering
harsh words, less frequent now. Shame behind closed doors. Not in front of the kid. I’m half-
awake (pretend sleeping), listening to choked professions of love through the door. Bite the
pillowcase. Reminded of biting into the cold of a popsicle. Teeth hurt. Is the cold of sweet
always so cold. Is there much left to say? he says. Yes, I want to interject. The word caught in
my throat, like the sob you just can’t roll off your shoulders. Chorus of Maybe you should go
sleep at your mother’s tonight marking time and position. GPS from above: notice me, I am
here. Close enough that terse words exchanged are not private. I am just a pinpoint, irrelevant
deviation from battlefield on homeland, hallways just outside my bedroom. Father-line with
hands too big, words too big. Mother-line parallel, unyielding. Two vectors reaching into space
but never meeting. When I am ten, or maybe older, I will ask him to forget the fear of being
triangulated from space. Feet are grounded now. Fall asleep to PBS, TV glow. Forge a path
from combat boots to carpeted bedroom. Leave radio reconnaissance bad static behind for
jazz on FM. Forget waves and transmit the message I love you to her, to me. Why is it easier
to aim bullets than dreams. Ask him, Do you have nightmares too. Tell him, When you come
home and kick your feet up, kick those boots off as well.

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