four poems
by David Cazden
Portrait Of A Turnip
A turnip is never too old
to be consumed
and is happy to be thrown
in a cellar, enjoying the damp
of its thoughts.
A turnip is also happy sliced up,
spread in butter, trying
not to be bitter going down.
It prefers being a side dish
at the edge of a plate
but its strong point is lasting
longer than anyone thought―
stroking its cloudy beard,
dreaming in its stubbled skin.
But the turnip was like this
even when young―flesh firm,
heart weak, living
next to its brother, the potato―
hairless and thin-skinned,
with half-closed eyes,
floating in earth
like the unborn.
But the turnip doesn't know
a potato is always the first
to be eaten. So the turnip waits
until it's rooty and old,
staying below everyone's footsteps―
tucked in the dark
full of hunger,
holding a single drop of the rain.
Staying Out Too Late
Our lawn turns the color of tea.
My dog, Rusty, tints dusky brown
while I'm busy kicking rocks
down a crumbling driveway,
sneaking in our backyard―
Dad reads behind a window,
a hummingbird moth
sips a Nicotiana's ghostly bloom
but the grass feels wet, tenuous
where Rusty and I'd run
school day afternoons
and where I used to think
we'd reunite by zinnias and the hollies―
after Dad's drapes closed for good
and Mom's voice folded in a breeze.
I didn't know I'd return
to this same place―
stepping over oak roots
gnarled through the loam,
past our old a/c's
sun-scorched skin,
its metal lungs full of rust.
So I was unsure, stepping
on the grassy edge
as stars streamed
across my face and eyes
and I wavered in the yard
until Mom's voice reeled me in
through the backyard door,
Rusty just behind, his body
brushing on my legs,
his brown fur fading
in the pale porch light.
Early Scientists Examine A Chrysalis
When they cut one open
expecting to find
a caterpillar in a dressing room,
dieting to thinness, gluing on wing stubs,
they saw nothing― not darkened sky
above shallow water
obscured by fog
hanging in the marsh trees
where the caterpillar hatched.
They didn't understand
how it vanished in its own bed
and they didn't know
its life of solitude―
crawling up one green stem,
chewing the same bitter leaf,
growing plump and alone.
For a caterpillar's essence
is rearranged by ores
in earth, casting fields
that pull living things together.
They only knew
it would unfold damp wings
like joined hands,
warming on a wrist of sun
refracting through a window
braceleted with rainbow colors.
That it must emerge, as we do―
the broken chrysalis
of our clothes across the floor,
as we wonder
where the butterfly went
that flew between our ribs,
through the body's open windows―
And each day we awaken
somehow transformed―
as if we are born again
in some foggy marsh,
arising out of nothing
into the morning air.
Proposing In The Car
Driving on tree-lined roads,
I keep one hand on the wheel
as the other searches. Above, August
paints the cirrus clouds
like blushing ribs
and I fumble in my pocket,
leaning toward you.
One day I won't bend so easily,
when spaces between vertebra
like empty days
dry and tumble.
But today everything's malleable, soft
as your brown eyes
swept with flecks of cloud.
So I propose, parked
on a random road
as the scent of earth rises
in the windows and the fulsome trees.
The sun pivots on the hood,
on the bright ring on your hand
as this summer when we met
finally exhales
through the humid grass,
across open pores of leaves―
so we hardly notice
outstretched oaks and sloping roofs
in the city where we'll live―
tucked between uneven bricks
in every house we'll have,
tangling hoses through the yards,
memorizing every crack
in every road
as we come and go.
Yet each day
the finest net of dusk
ensnares us, as it does now―
drifting through branches
bowed above the car,
where we park for hours
in twilight's drifting sigh.
Photo of David Cazden
BIO: David Cazden's poetry has appeared in The New Republic, Heavy Feather Review, The Chiron Review, Nimrod, The Louisville Review, Crab Creek Review, Kestrel, Fugue Journal, The Shore and elsewhere. His most recent book is New Stars And Constellations (Bainbridge Island Press, 2024).