Radio to Me

Nine months insignificant
gray matter defines the canyon
between us.
My language waits to be named
to unload a double barrel chamber
packed with muted vowels
until we fire.

Finger
Finger
I think of the rings around your bones
how I belong to you
our shared desire
to roll the sleeve
pull the trigger
feel the innocence
of blushing freedom.

Never do I hear the sound
body crash into pillow
echoes against the night
symphony of nothingness
melds into one.

Sulfuric smell
black-blue powder
makes me dream
stains my left palm
leaves a carbon print
of my existence.
Though I may be found
who will remember me

I am not dead
I am not living

one-one thousand
two-one thousand
three.
Voices count
memories swim underworld myths
paddle through mists of hair
hairs that trace the path
down the secret society
of dying.

Someone
holds a piece of me to their ear
imagines the sea.
Sandpaper teeth grind
transistor crackles radio
between scissor currents
and the passion
of a wave.

Thick with stars
congested veins
I try to wake for counting voices
fading
surrendering
their numbers to land.
Beyond myself on a raft
I float
abandoning a memory
of me and Finger
extinct.

Chachee Valentine’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Stolen Island Review, Lullwater Review, Fugue, P’an Ku, In-Site Magazine, Words & Images, Alchemy, Prairie Margins, Askew, The Bitchin’ Kitsch and Eunoia Review. Chachee attends Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, NM, for her BFA in Creative Writing in Spring ’22.

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