I was born inside a stereo. Thumps
reverberated my spine that low
deep bass throbbing my temples, how good
you look in your Sunday gown belting
admonishments to an unseen hand
the knobs. The frequencies
a frequent crackle distorted by sudden talk
when the needle tickles the old soul
station out of South Mobile. Driving
twang to Telluride, the true strings
strung along the Appalachian’s
teeth, your hands beating rhythm
how sweet your tongue just behind.
A devil waits where chords
cross the way he’ll save you selling
treble to thrum your bones. My ears
pop between fluid, how lovely your voice
echoes off plywood & when I sing I swear
my breath is fire, my feet
tap until the dark dies, morning.
Jerrod E. Bohn finished his MFA in Poetry at Colorado State University. His numerous publication credits include poems in Phoebe, alice blue, Smoking Glue Gun, Cleaver and Word For/Word as well as a personal essay, “Smoke,” in The Montreal Review.