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.

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DISCHARGE QUESTIONNAIRE

for my sister

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.

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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.]