Advance

With a squeal, the already
otherworldly broadcast
stuttered,
scattered,
leaving
only a tattered hiss.
At first
my father’s fingers
fussed
the dial of our radio,
signals
fritzed as a flintless lighter,

then he leaned in closer,
intent on
teasing
the news
we needed
out of that box.
I never saw him touch more
slightly anything or anyone,
all his
fingertips navigating
in and out of
nonsense for
the lifeline of our lives,
before
swiping it off.

Now
no more news was ours but
the storm’s dark musings
on the matter.

Even last
fall’s fruit, jarred in the root
cellar just around the corner,
sucked
its cupped lids
tighter.