Onions

Mother stands at the sink,
the sleeves of her faded
blue dress rolled up
to her elbows. Her hand nestles
a paring knife, a warm fetus
incubating in her palm. A pair
of onions lay half-diced
on the cutting board beside her.

I tug at the back of her dress,
just above the pit of her knee.
She turns slowly, her eyes
moist and red, her tears tiny
glass infants sliding down
her freckled face.

She bends over, pulling me in.
She clears her throat, a knife
scraping the sides of an empty
embryo. She tells me she loves
me. I wrap my arms around her neck,
burying myself in the folds
of her blue dress.

Now I start to cry, mother and I,
crying in unison, me crying
because mother is crying,
and now the paring knife is crying,
the fetus, the embryo, the glass
infants cut out of the womb,
all of us crying together,
while the pair of onions
that started it all
lay spread out
on their cutting board couch,
their eyes blinking periodically
and their limbs relaxed, as if they
are watching the evening news,
a dozen more men
dying over seas, an angry kid
shooting his teacher
at the local high school,
as if to say that white-masked men
ending thousands of lives
before they begin
is alright.