Poetry by Clare Best

Red onion harvest

Late summer crop this lucky dip
of purple hidden in black soil
and flaccid weed; fourteen hands
reach out to sort the onions
over rollers, up steep conveyor belts
bouncing and tumbling thousands
from their earthy elements until

these rise, fine full-blooded moons
with only scabs of dried mud
clung to wiry root and glossy skin.
Behind barn doors closing night
on sweet humidity, the best will keep
and keep a store, a deep red
sea of unshed tears.