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, 
either fully  
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