“Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.”
—Robert Frost
O, Onion,
from the dungeon of the bottom drawer—
still trapped in netting—I know, I know,
how, against your wishes, you’re grabbed,
brought beneath the light, interrogated briefly
for any sign of bad dealings or deterioration,
then transported quickly to cold as thick
as your aroma. Where did you think
you would be thrown but here?
Third drawer of the guarded Frigidaire
amongst the life-long offenders of celery
and carrots, sweet peppers and tomatoes,
who, unlike your kind, at least
had the good sense not to stir
previous executioners to excessive
weeping with their layer after layer
of refusal to come undone. So here
you cower. Here you shiver. Here
even your last defense—
your scent—abandons you.
And then the knife.
And then the fire.
