I’m cooking with onions.
Beneath its brown tissue,
unwrapping, smoothness, naked.
The inner skin is moist, and firm,
its curves reassuring to hold
around, down to the soft root mat.
The raw peeling is a tearing,
unlayering making its acid
reaction to my quick undressing—
or to the intimacy of the edge
that pares and parts and spaces,
destroying dignity for its strong taste.
But the pieces slide in hot virgin
as I ravish the soft sweet heart
pungent and raw and persistent.
I lost those smooth round curves,
the naked skin, moist root mat—
it all lies in pieces, after tears.
And since there are no tissues to hand
and there are no kisses to blend,
I’m cooking with onions. But eating the heart.
2013 © Andie Davidson