Radio, Radio
|
by 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. |
