In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

41 Radish Summers my sisters and I pulled radishes, seizing the greens, tearing the bulbs up from the thread that held them like the strand to my last bloody tooth. We tossed them in loose bunches by the fence. Tonight it’s hot and you lie uncovered.The thin light winds backwards into sleep, and you are embryo, curled in a pulsing dark. I have never had children, never cut the cord that sets them breathing or listened, afraid for the beating to stop. Now, as I touch the quickness in your side, trace the veins that anchor your branching hands to their stems, I understand why the plant is fiercely green, why the red vegetable clings in the crumbling dirt, how easy to pluck from its root the delicate heart. ...

Share