Mark Heinsoo The Onion Pickers Stale summer heat tastes like my mouth– Retched– caked with raw onion smell. The once rich earth begging for change or tears or the squeeze or touch of flesh. Many tears dried now, like a slug's trail, not by hand or desired breeze, but time. Plenty of time. Without fail my thoughts bake. They sizzle down and congeal. They... ...twist, like Grandma in the breeze. Those summer days. Oppression and dust. Grandpa with a spade beats the earth, beats himself, screams like the winter wind, still beyond reach. Still Grandma swings in the breeze. It all curdles and stinks, the land, the life, my love for it. Me. It smells like my mouth. It tastes like Grandma smells. It feels like Grandpa’s hate... ...and God help me I love it.