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G.E. radio
by Patria Rivera

This is the house Father built
on the edge of our small town.
A wooden house with a thatched roof
and nipa shingles all around.

I liked to slide on the cool bamboo slats
and peek under my mom’s loose skirt.
She didn’t mind two tiny eyes
poking between her two fat legs.

At four, I waited
for the little men and women
who sang G.I. songs
and lived inside our G.E. radio.
Once, I tore off the radio’s cardboard back
to see my little friends,
but all I saw were bulbous tubes
and copper wires glistening in the dark.

I searched in all the corners,
fearing they must have slipped out,
thought they hid in the telephone by day
and came out every night.

 



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