THINGS I COULD TELL YOU ABOUT ONIONS
I came out teeth first, took an apron string
in my mouth, stirred what was caramelizing
so she could tend to dough breathing under
a towel. Some world is always vanishing—
broth cooks off, sugar feeds yeast—still,
I strive to affix—dent others like copper,
swallow the wedding ring to keep it—most
often fail. My fire's fed with papery skins,
wrings tears, casts an uneven, amber light.
Though the heart thuds with lack,
lack, lack, do you spot its clasped
flowering—a fig's lure to wasps?
Can you conjure the tang of pencil
shavings or honeysuckle tongued
off the vine? Which path leads to
the sole's migratory eye? Yes, what
seems dawn is fire in the canyons,
but the world clasps contradictions,
doesn't deem them so. Endangered
one, let's shuck shoes, cross fields
quaking with cicadas' tredecennial
lovemaking. All creatures crave
continuation, so steady on. If we
move at a crawl, I won't mind.
On "Things I Could Tell You About Onions": Onions don't make me cry; in fact, I chopped up eight for [Georgian Chicken in Pomegranate and Tamarind Sauce] last night, and am no worse for wear. But here, I'm thinking about how families both nourish and starve us, and then sic that ravenousness on the world.
On "Discharge Questionnaire": Sometimes, nature seems the only consolation, at least, that's what I'm trusting here, stringing these beads of wonder for my sister to find, and hopefully, follow like a trail of breadcrumbs, back to the land of the living. Also, sole (and all flatfish) are [bizarre, incredible creatures.]