Grow Ruth Ellen Kocher I have a red onion in a green bowl on my kitchen counter sprouting a green stalk that began as a little green haystack bump, a knobby cyst, really, that broke surface, felt like what I imagine I’m feeling for when I rub my breasts in the shower, my eyes closed as if water is a blindfold allowing me to feel within that dark any small homicide growing within me. I can’t bring myself to use the onion, to gnash its skin, to whack off its hard-on-gooseneck like I’m suddenly death’s scythe, death’s brindled pet, death’s dappled [...]