Cultivars of the onion, it is white fleshed and tinged
with red, as though double-edged,
offering the world a sweet alternative–
I have grown to love its body,
for what it is;
a portal, a metaphysical speculation that inveigles the
human mind with tears as its price.
With papery outer skin; a red onion is only
as pungent as its age.
It consists of raw nerve that pierces the soul
like a song
and brings me to my knees,
such a glorious way to surrender, considering
that the sky
is an embroidered patchwork of bluish-grey afterthought.
And now, I dice with wild abandon,
make love to inner demons
and grin with sated lust,
a red onion reminds that we are only as
defeated as we choose to be,
or with the intent to breathe poetry
from a delicate
ribcage full of burning midday sun; the choice is ours.
Photo credits: Wang Fine Art: Two Onions, Pinterest.
Posted for Poetics: Peeled Away @dVerse Poets Pub