Onions

As the battered pickup trundles
away, I heave myself out of a dead
uncle's Buick and roll up the bounty
in my maternity top, hard belly
to the fading sun. Ten feet
from my scrambling lay fields barren
of sun-dried onions, vigorously
beheaded by migrants. I watch
night swallow the truck as fat
treasures tumble from a wooden
cage into pungent haze. Tonight
supper will be chicken pasole
bulging with slightly sauteed onions
and whole mushrooms. Tonight
the baby will feel my pulse.