I admire it for a long while—
especially the purple ones
with tender jade shoots
clasped as if in supplication.
On the top of my fridge
an ichibana still life sprouts
and bends towards the light.
At the point of no return,
I stick it in a pot and let-er-rip.
Only this onion didn't R.I.P.,
it flourished, and grew long tendrils,
longer than my arms, which in turn blossomed—
or so I thought. Not blossoms,
but bright purple bulbils.
The more it tried to flower,
the more bulbils grew in its stead.
So they, in turn, flowered—or so I thought.
Soon, it was a mad daisy-chain of sprouting onion bulbs
4 generations long—all in one season
and nary a true blossom in sight, only papery husks—
It was like an Egyptian walking onion nightmare on LSD.
I wrestled down the wandering hollow stems
crowned with small onion heads
sprouting forked tongues like Medusine snakes.
Then it struck me. I've tended a Monsanto monster
genetically modified not to produce seeds.
But it seems nature's veritas found a workaround.
I'll plan the bulbils to see if they'll grow. And so on.
Take that to the afterlife, Monsanto.
Weigh it up with a feather. See where it lies.
O brave new world.
