Onion

It is the peeling that breaks me.
It is the skin once a thin bastion
against dirt, against mandible,
against the boring small things
that blister the flesh, brown the pulp.

And as I slide a blade into the onion,
wincing in the sting of sulphur,
these fumes of disdain, it yields,
again and again, to the rocking steel,
humming unto the butter and pan.

But it’s the peeling that breaks me.
Thin papers loose as sunburn,
loose as ribbon unwound
from the core, loose as young men
bound for the shore, loose as a living,
a living no more.

Image: Lars Blankers on Unsplash

2 thoughts on “Onion

Add yours

  1. I like the idea of the things we do routinely every day revealing metaphors, opening up for us the opportunity to process experiences and often troubling thoughts. I am inclined to believe such actions become like an exorcism, a therapeutic mantra after which we are able to restore equilibrium.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes, and with the hands engaged in these routine and mundane tasks, the mind is freed to wander into territories we don’t necessarily want to go, but as you say, it becomes therapeutic.

      D

      Like

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