ANN SIMMONS

The Virgins

The onions are crying in the garden today,
Sobbing because they are so white
To be bred from the darkness of dead things;
From the wingbones of owls and their beaks decayed lightly,
And the seeds of the sunflower .
Rotting there

Throbbing with shrew-fur and scales of swift fish,
With thistles and sand thorns and ear-tufts of lobos,
Pulsing with souls of great bulls comes the lover.
And the onions lament that they must be one
With the antelope, eagle, and oak.
Crying loudly,
They suck of the sun,
And speak of their shame in proud whispers.