Onion Songs

MINIMALIST BIOGRAPHY

He and his wife led their small life. No great adventures or newspaper photos.

Neither did anything you might remember the next morning.

Tiny bodies, tinier heads—they disappeared in the glare of one bright day.

A dozen and more owned the house after. None recalled them or their time.

Then one morning cleaning we found handprints on ceilings, footprints across walls.

My wife angrily climbed the ladder with dripping mop, overflowing pail.

Kids? Elves? Way up here?

What is that red spot? Blood?

Peering closer she found a delicate, miniature painting: an alizarin rose.

Written beneath were flyspeck words:

“Tom loves Martha. She says hello.”