One single
sweet little
Vidalia onion—
nestled in its crimson bowl
keeps begging me to
write a
poem about it—so I guess
here I go.
Chilly gray light from the kitchen
window drapes it,
makes its dirty skin
look clean and perfect,
makes it it look pale and
textured and whole,
makes it look useful—
like the habitable
surface of an alien planet;
the bowl itself, glass
and fluted, and its
muddled shadow stains the patterned woodgrain
table it sits on;
Cheesy "Clair de Lune" is playing
in another room—and I feel so bitter-
sweet pink blue and yellow inside,
so dumb
mute, mild, and midday-sadly
content to be alone
standing here
barefoot (with cold toes)
in the middle of all this
realizing
it's raining again,
sniffing
the faint smell,
and wondering—
what's all this
pretense
of an
onion for?
