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.

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