Poem of the Day

My Baby is a Red Radio

I thought I saw my baby
hovering over the market
holding a clove of garlic
in her fist. She dressed
like the baby Jesus, in cloud
and consequence.

I feigned something in my eye--
an old trick of mine--asked
a stranger the price of eggplant
and walked down the street,
my baby crying above
the indifferent world.

When I woke the ground
was papered and pungent
but the sky clear with blue
that went on and on.

And you're in a library reading
with a smirk but there's a crumb
on your collar, and a hair
from my beard curls buried
in the crack between floorboards.

And you're my baby in bluejeans
the color of pulsing veins. You're
a song I remember when it warms
through the honeyed tubes
of the dusty red Zenith.

I saw my baby on the bus
dressed as an old woman, crying
and cursing us, laughing
into her broken coat. I followed
to her house your house.

My baby went to sleep on a bed
lit by light from the moon
we used to share.