Spring Onions

I stand at the Saturday market stall where
people are really spring onions,

dressed in fine leavery, frilly collars,
but sharp and spicy when stripped,

stinging of skin, pungent to lick,
a rasp on the taste to celebrate;

some are more bulbous than others
and some squirm, some acquiesce

when the cook’s long-unwhetted knife
encourages their unravelling,

their cohorts left untouched, wilting
in the icy depths of a forgotten fridge.