In the Kitchen at the End of March
By Claire Buck
With the side of my thumb I crack
their brittle skins, slice and slip
sticky greens from their centers—
If my weeks-old onions could scratch
me a message on the pale undersides
of their papers, they’d say,
“Plant us in the ground, woman!
Can’t you see how our shoots reach
through the orange-mesh bag
toward the open window?”
This is the season when anything might root
into the soil and grow. In the pots
by the sidewalk, the scattered cigarettes
might decide to be seeds and sprout
smoldering stalks. A lost glove might tunnel
pink fingers into the grass and re-knit
itself into a flower. And the faces
of everyone on the street, upturned
toward the sun might unfurl
like long-clenched lilac buds.
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