This poem is taken from Stand 217, 16(1) March - April 2018.

Bruce Bond Three Poems

I gave my mother a radio her death
gave back, tuned to the breath of no one station.

I dragged a needle across the horizon.
Somewhere a voice.  To take the breath away.  

If you listen, you can hear it: the news
in the song in the still more distant news.

I gave my radio a death and yet
the music stayed behind.  Its voice my voice.

The tune it carried carried me, its child,
from car to bed to a dream I belong

to a different family.  Older, stranger.
A music that dies in order to be music.

The moan of the train carries best
at night, when all our hinges start to sing.

I light a Jahrzeit candle on the mantel.
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