Joseph Radke

You Can’t Separate Absence from Presence by Distance Alone

And so I’m driving north out of the city.
Heading to my best friend’s parent’s place.
Four lanes Y into two. Fast food places fade. 

Every restaurant is a family
restaurant, hometown cafe, or
bar and grill. Churches, taverns. 

Then, first left after the bait shop, the gravel
road. Aspens quake, lodgepole pines. A gap
for lake view. Someone else's cabin. Off-grid, 

sun-powered. Someone else's kids scurry
around—the gathering of objects
that precedes a swim. Hummingbirds 

interrogate the feeder—a buzz
like bullets passes the ear. Nectar
evaporates. Bodies float like bubbles.

The flames are down, the coals
ready. Topher's looking
for cumin, the chili’s missing

ingredient; coriander won't do. I
came here looking for space, a story
of my own to share. Over the phone’s 

weak signal, I told you about the tour
of an abandoned iron mine: 400 feet
of rock above us, how we walked through 

tunnels once denser than steel. The guide
put out the lights. For a moment, darkness
was so complete I couldn't tell

if my eyes were open or closed. And last night,
the kids put on a show: their grandma read
Little Orphant Annie while they took

turns playing goblins. Later, we saw stars
falling or shooting, heard a hiss
in the woods. No one knew if 

it was a badger, bobcat, or barred
owl. A mosquito with my blood in it
went willingly to the zapper’s

glow with a crack. I think I know that sound.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Joseph Radke works as a freelance writer and editor in Wisconsin’s Fox River Valley. He earned his doctorate in English from UW-Milwaukee. His poems have appeared in several journals, including The Journal, Copper Nickel, Boulevard, Poetry East and Natural Bridge.