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