Dust Radio Keeps Calling Me
by Larry Fontenot
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Out the window night is black as dirt dug from the bottom of a Louisiana gumbo hole. Stars dust the sky, shun houses lit by electric bulbs. I’m belly down on the bed, listening to the Mighty Clouds of Joy singing "Steal Away to Jesus." Momma says, "God won’t move your tricycle." I trudge out to the driveway, park my bike out of the way. Momma knows the boundaries of sin having crossed over and back several times and willing to preach on it. But dust radio calls my name, and I am not earth bound to any voice tonight. I’m gone, and will not come back to Jesus. Once deep in dust, the old road sleeps under the hiss of concrete. the road we followed into the darkness, the path of misbegotten youth. Now I wait for the sunrise, convinced no light shines on answers. And when the rooster sings hallelujah, I’ll be far away, clouds of joy covering my back, hiding my escape. I will meet you at the turn of the river. We’ll race along the road ridden hard by crushed stones. And the command to turn around and go back will be lost among the hum of spinning wheels. |
 Patricia Wallace Jones |
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