Radishes
I like to sing the song
Of the world, its little truth
Carried in the way it rhymes.
Like radishes grown for butter, salt, bread:
Birds need nests as dogs need shed, and
Buried eggs might save your turnip bed.
My heart is radish-colored,
And as bitter, and as sweet.
Grasping in the night for water
I wobble the glass, make a sound,
And you dream a submarine
With flickering light rising
Valiant from the depths of another
World’s becoming. From the window
The nighthawks are hunting,
And if it wouldn’t wake you
I would twine our fingers tight
As though to say
Yes,
Yours, too, is a song I will keep
Learning to sing.
Chuck McKeever is a writer, teacher, naturalist, and union organizer in Detroit. His poems have previously appeared in Some Words, GONZOID, The Bear River Review, and The Longfellow Review. He's usually looking around to see what the crows are up to.