Written by Amanda Trout
Mowed down to vidalia stubble, tall fescue
attempts its autumn overtake, swarms thicker
in areas onions used to be, remembers
echoes of past winter wars, impending rebellions.
Each onion sees its opening, stabs skyward
like a man witnessing divine intervention
who takes it, shoves his carpentry degree
in a coffee cup, gulps the bitter reality
but refuses to spit it out. The onions stalk
thinly at first, bunch in tiny families
until fourteen days like fourteen years
sees their venture gain some momentum.
The pillar of the family, biggest center stem,
sunbursts to healthy seeds and purple petals.
.
Amanda Trout is a Midwestern US writer with a love for sound and form. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Pleiades, NOVUS, Zaum, and other publications. Her micro-chapbook, Still Life, was published by Yavanika Press in summer 2024. She currently teaches composition and studies poetry at Oklahoma State University. Find Amanda on Instagram @atrout2972