The Emerson Review Vol. 50

Page 92

ONION GRASS Ste ph ani e Niu

Sometimes a sweetness in the mornings. The smell of the sun opening the heated leaves. Sometimes the memory of your little brother falling out of a pine tree, landing on his teeth. The field behind the tennis courts where you dug onion grass, snacking on the pungent leaves, the spice, the juice, imagined if you ever had to run from home you would come here, where you would have things to eat. Onions by day. Water from the creek. The only part of escape that is easy. Digging until the dirt covered your nails, knuckles, wrist, digging until you could lift the glowing bulb free, its own small miracle, bright and swinging from the grass in your fist.


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