My mother was raised on Patsy Clineand Hank Williams countrythat bounced in on her father’s radio.Even today, I know I am nearing homewhen the pop music cracklesinto KTNN, licksof fluent Navajo flitting betweenLoretta Lynn and Johnny Cash.They are interludes, too,for drumbeats and throaty coversof well-loved tunes put onby some local boys’ gas stationbanjo and hot-rocket guitar,a strong woman that singsthe seasons over a hand drum.Then it is backto more Loretta Lynn.All contradictionsfind a home in the body, the insect-skinof the car sluicing the Arizona desertas the cicadas pick up their grandinstruments. How else to knowyou enter a land of monuments, nota wasteland, loved by radio wavesand peach treesand small, silly dogs that bridgethe distance between a chapter houseand the nearest Sonics in a city.The moon rocks darken into pine,pine into slickrock,and the whole world rememberswhat it once was—grand ocean: sun, plankton, pearl,blood, ancestor, cloud. Radio rainbowsthe most violent parts of the landthrashed by thunderstorms & seaas the rattles pick up their backing trackand Hank Williams rolls inall over again, easy and easyand blue.