Poets for Science
Global Gallery







His peeling and cutting them makes her eyes water,

as much as when she sees the parchment bodies


of bluebird chicks stiffened on the back porch,

pushed out of the nest box by a murdering


house sparrow. On her plate, she slides aside

the yellow rings. She never eats them, but


he always serves them, and, after thirty-one

years of marriage, still asks, 


“You’re not going to eat your onions?”

Between bites she ponders what to do


about the warring birds. She read in The Times

that rising temperatures have disrupted


the mating timelines; the bluebird

has lost its head-start. She could move


their box away from the house.

Less lethal than suggestions to trap


the sparrows or crush their eggs. She scrapes

her onions onto his plate, gets a hammer 


and steps outside to find a peaceful meadow

where the hostile sparrow will not nest.