When you find yourself in Siberia
with a jukebox strapped bomb-like to your back,
house-arrest anklet sounding its alarm,

a direction manual to disengage
it yet in a language you do not speak,
you know what it is to be led to prayer.

You check your pockets for your phone, wallet,
a map: finding no such help except wads
of rubles, you force-feed those contents in—

what else?—that jukebox. You sift through meager
offerings until your Shostakovich.
You could kill for a hammer and sickle,

a locksmith, a finger picker to warm
that tundra—you gather you’re that far north—
for your hypothermic digits or your

homesick heart. You call out for—who else?—Townes
Van Zandt, good company and body heat
with his flask of something sure to be hard

and burning, with words to absolve you, to
administer whatever rite you want
with a list to boot of glory in all

forms, liver spotted as it may be. That
royal Texan roams about precisely
for this purpose. You hear he keeps a tight

watch, a rosary of clipped dog tags for
known communists and cowboys alike, most
anyone lost in these frostbitten parts.