Punk Onions (#49)

The snow lies in cockscomb

Shadows on the tin roof,

Hiding from the sun.

Little can for long,

Perhaps the bottoms of stones,

The undercut stream bank,

American living rooms.

In my dim kitchen, the onions

Sprout green spiked hairdos,

Veggie punks, like the ones

They showed on tv when

I was a kid, desperate to scare.

It worked at first, didn’t it?

Those bright, flashing squares.

Our parents warned us,

“Don’t sit too close,

You’ll ruin your eyes.”

Saccharined, stupefied,

Children mistaking sitcoms for

Sunshine. But they found light

Where no one else could—

The onions, I mean, and

The punks. Green feathered

Canaries in coal mines,

Sweetly singing “kill, kill, kill!”

Rhapsodic and dire, but our

Parents only heard gibberish,

Only saw darkness as the world

Around them ignited, burning,

Ablaze with the brightest light.