It’s the magic
Of you, radish,
Fattening from
lithe
youth-
ful
root
to portly
fruit overnight
that so ingratiates you
with the over-
weight and lone-
some middle-aged
For, in the
morning, you
don’t drably
balance
on the scale
then envy the
Still slender hips
Of mature
Parsnips—
Or bemoan
This dreadful belly
emerging
in middle age
Despite your
Modest diet
of compost,
water, and the
Dandelion wine
Of June sunshine.
But rather, radish,
your Burlesque, bulbous
being roots even
deeper into your life
as, growing portly
as sweet beets,
causes your
social circle
to expand until
You’re face-
To face with
So many lovely,
Buxom neighbors
Whose like rosy
cheeks you kiss
before spooning
with one or two
through the night
until splitting open
with delight. Oh,
it’s the self-acceptance
We long for, radish,
as growing midriffs
(And chubby thighs)
Decrease our like-
Lihood of loving
Our own bodies
Enough to bravely
expand into the lives
of others searching,
in kind, for intimacy’s
warm, raised bed;
or it’s the fact
that fat, for you,
isn’t a pathology
but, rather,
increases your allure
At farmer’s markets
Where lovely
Shoppers pause
in awe of your
Dynamite daikon
Proportions before
taking you home
to dinner that
same night.
And so, radish,
Though we sentence
Ourselves to salads
And the solitary
Confinement
Of all things wheat
the sight of you
atop lettuce
Reminds us to
Love our own lushness
rife with the same
water retention
as flesh peeks through
The leaves of our
Shirts and jeans.
And if some of us—
Growing a like opulence—
also believe
We’re still
Ravishing enough
To be harvested
By a famished
Heart across
The market
or bar, radish,
let the first
dinner date
commence with
the big bosomed you
Topping arugula
sparking a chat
on shifting
Cultural notions
Of beauty allowing
The plump to
Plumb the waters
Of Eros. And letting
our imaginations
fatten to envision
Our love handles
Increasing the
Pleasure of the
One we love,
May we recall
how happiness
sometimes rhymes
with fat—
or how portly
is a port we can
dock our bodies
from the storm
of trying to conform
to the magazine
photos— so this
lingering taste of you
Mixed with the
Wine’s earth tones
And chicken stock
is what inspires
that first kiss
swelling the heart,
radish-like, overnight
as we realize
how, returning us
to love, radish,
you’ve planted us,
back into our lives.
—
Dennis Camire is the author of the poetry collections, Anthology of Awe and Wonder (Deerbrook Editions), Combed by Crows (Deerbrook Editions), and Stone by Stone (Finishing Line Press), and teaches at Central Maine Community College. The former director of Maine Poetry Central and the founder of The Portland Poet Laureate Program, his work has appeared in The Mid-American Review, Poetry East, Spoon River Review, Lothlorien Review, Alluvium, Amethyst, Café Review, Canary, Hamilton Stone Review, Speckled Trout Review, and on Maine Public Radio. He lives in an A-frame in West Paris, Maine. He is also the “spokes-poet” for the mom-and-pop owned company, “Soil Foods,” which farms worms for worm castings.
