wild onion

i want to scroll in a new dimension.
one that will finally use my eyes up. 
well is dry. it is spring again & we are
hunting for onions in the blue 
of our sadness. i pick so many that i start
to hear bells. knuckles & green. each, the eye
of a sleeping god. one who long ago
hung up his divinity in exchange for
darkness. i put the onions in my eye sockets
& see the world as thick as ever. you are
eating them raw. i am boiling them 
in the microwave. what did people do
before tutorials? did we just walk around
knocking on doors until someone knew
how to tan hide? how to kill the cold before
it gets too loud. i lied to you. it is not spring
at all in fact it is almost winter in the sense that
it is always almost winter & summer is always
far away even when you are inside it.
i find onions waving at me. my neighbors.
once my brother cut the tip of his finger off
& a stalks of wild onion grew from the wound.
he was little & maybe he doesn't even remember
how all our family came to feast on his bones. 
to be connected by blood is to be taken by blood.
roots like tentacle eyelashes. i smell my fingers.
they are still bright & onioned. we cook 
a pasta that is lackluster. my hair is growing back
& each strand is a little wild onion throat. 
i rest my head on the cutting board & go to sleep.
let the cleaver fall. spoon in my mouth. 
rinsing the sauce can in the sink.