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More poems by Ben DoyleBen Doyle | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Ben DoyleBooks by Ben Doyle

Radio, Radio

Ben Doyle

In the middle of every field,
obscured from the side by grass
or cornhusks, is a clearing where
she works burying swans alive
into the black earth. She only
buries their bodies, their wings.
She packs the dirt tight around
their noodle necks & they shake
like long eyelashes in a hurricane.
She makes me feed them by hand
twice a day for one full year: grain,
bits of chopped fish. Then she
takes me to the tin toolshed.
Again she shows me the world
inside her silver transistor radio.
She hands me the scythe.


Anonymous submission.

Added: 16 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 14 Dec 2018 9:20 PM | Viewed: 5444 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/7842/ | Viewed on 14 December 2018.
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