“Wild Onions” by Stephen Jackson



Rising up

from a field of onions

I glimpsed the stars

beyond you,


impossible

smell of Ohio

the two-lane highway

with no guardrail,


had we hidden

to save our lives

or savor the warmth

of each other’s body,


buddies —

we could not smother

each other

with kisses,


though we

were brave enough

to flip off

truckers.




Stephen Jackson lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. Other work appears or is forthcoming in 433, The American Journal of Poetry, Hole in the Head Review, Impossible Archetype, The Inflectionist Review, The Open Culture Collective, Stone of Madness Press, S/WORD, and on the International Human Rights Art Festival Publishes platform.


Twitter: @fortyoddcrows

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