Bags Of Onions
Wet, edible bulbs
With a skin condition.
Little rolling things
Full of spiteful sap.
Heated and fried,
Changes their minds,
They become benevolent,
Delicious and heavenly.
Trussed in netting,
Hang tamely in the porch,
Waiting winter’s knife,
Cold kitchen’s sizzling.
Days in the sunshine,
Gone with the wind,
Patiently waiting
Their digestion
And disappearance.
© Patricia Turner
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