Once again, I stand in my mother’s
mint-green raincoat from
RH White’s, too-thick hair
spilling far past my shoulders,
a stain on this prim coat.

In this musty record store,
dark even at noon,
I flip through crates
of $1 albums,
almost all faded.

Here I find a black album,
all outline, no color,
large dung beetle, holy symbol,
shuddering bass, tenor’s yelp.
Nothing I am looking for.

I hold the album between my hands.
Colors emerge: iridescent purple
and silver. Then green
overwhelms black
to shimmer like leaves.

I wonder what I will hear
when I play this album
on the blue Radio Shack
record player I still own
in dreams like this one.

Some nights I put
the album back,
fearing bad guitar,
worse lyrics. Once
someone had slipped
disco into the sleeve.

That night a siren sounded.
Men dressed like cops whooped.
Across the hall my brother
snickered, then chanted
DISCO SUCKS, DISCO SUCKS.

Tonight I try again, hoping
for Richard Thompson, hoping
for Los Lobos, for A Tribe
Called Quest, not daring
to imagine women’s voices
on the album called Transmute.