in the middle of every field,
obscured from the side by grass
or cornhusks, is a clearing where
she works by 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.
-ben doyle, "radio, radio"