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1. Hi all, I would like to introduce myself to the group. I live in Euless. I would like to get back into writing poetry and fiction.

   RAW ONIONS
   Tom Person

   Dirt orange sky,
   smeared zinc with storm clouds,
   smelled of ozone
   and stale rain.
   We counted off seconds
   between lightning and thunder,
   huddled close on the porch
   as the gap narrowed.
   Gardens grew hoary ripe
   that year. Early onions boiled in soup
   or we ate them raw like baseballs
   on the porch swing, our radio
   a doorstop against isolation.
   Static from the storm
   crackled and cleared
   familiar voices that still
   ghost stormy nights.
   A cottonwood split and burnt
   by lightning
   sizzled out in rain
   that welled and rivered our path.
   Inside, Mother hummed, pickled onions
   and packed them in jam jars
   tight against the storm.

   published in Coffeehouse Poet’s Quarterly 3, Summer 1991

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