LAUREN EGGERT-CROWE


 

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Think of a Radish

The soul could have a tail, no,
a tendril extending from the heart (knotted tuber).
The color may deceive you. Do you distrust
a creature that plumps into the packed loam,
cells dividing into sphere, tough, burst?

Each one dives into a name: mammoth, red globe, white icicles.
Cruciferous, all, the fists.
So we must ask,
what gravities do they shoulder beneath the silted surface:
What rattling currencies stacked on the root.
What sulfured barbs haloing chipped charms of teeth.

How they clutch with their hair
against the ripping into the light,
against the shaking off of their brown beads.

Originally appeared in Alligator Juniper, 2008