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FRESH PICKED

Radishes near the sink
on a yellow towel
waiting to be washed,
the dirt rinsed from the crevices.
I feel they could be the hearts
of unborn lizards that will
bake brown on brown stones.
And yet I wonder if the green leaves
coming from them are good enough to eat.
I crunch into the white meat —
water beads: crisp on my teeth.
The cold water has pounded
the last memory of earth from their bodies
as they wait in the strainer to dry.

      — Michael Largo