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.