starting a family

of the oak trees
all i can say is that they 
were also wondering if there's
anything sturdier than 
a bag of dusty onion
at the bottom of a kitchen cabinet.
i know my parent's house
is real because when i look for
a jar of raspberry jam 
i find them, the onions,
lazy in all different stages
of peeling. i tell the onions
that they should come
lay on the floor of my house
& gossip about other vegetables
with me. i don't use onions,
not because i have anything against them,
but because i don't actually cook.
the onions make fun of me
& they hiss saute saute saute.
i take one & put it in my pocket 
to quiet the rest. i tell the onion
i will take it home & make 
a wonderful feast out of 
nothing else, just the onion.
on my kitchen table 
the onion 
removes small sections of 
its flaky brownish covering,
tossing the flecks at me.
i tell the onion to wait
while i get ready. i imagine
the onion sliced into 
lovely perfect rings, translucent 
in the bottom of the pan 
sparkling with oil. 
i will get into the pan with 
the onion, wearing the slivers
like hula hoops.
on the hard wood floor of the kitchen
i hear onions rolling,
a distinct kind of thump.
then, i hear them in my pantry 
banging their skulls on the doors.
there's a 7 year old version 
of me standing on a stool 
at the counter & he-she is crying 
as she presses the knife down
on the onion & his-her mom 
tells says it's unavoidable 
to cry when you chop onions.
i bite the onion on the counter
& in the hopes that it might
make me cry but it doesn't.
instead the onion itself cries,
shaking & sobbing as i hold it.
i tell the onion i'm sorry 
for not having patience with it.
i tell the onion i should have looked
up a real recipe. i ask the onion 
if i could bring its friends next time
a whole bag & if they could please
lay on the floor of my bed room
just to talk all through the night,
tell me stories about the circles 
in their bodies.
tell me if they wish they grew
on the tall oak trees 
that peer in the window judging us
& the ways we make do.
tell me what they think makes 
a real house.