I push the knife below the skin
The almost intimate secret of
No mark at all
Just the smile of slit, right
Where I dig my nail and start to pull.
Disrobing becomes a part
Of what is expected
Over marble, a slab indecent
Flecked, as if with ash
And parts, tip the units, surrounding
Watching
-
I hold the onion in my hands.
The skin comes away with residue
Birthed too early, slimed
Tinged blue - the hurt,
The hurt not on my hands
But in my eyes
The complete coming away
Of a facade
How many weep in the family kitchen
Where the knives are displayed
Like invitations?
I guide the blade to the bulbs head
The extent of parenthood
Released on pressure, reflects in rings.
I move the knife, like a touch
With deliberate speed
The translucent ties, shimmer and break
And something adolescent
Over the vision
Shakes
Falls as salt water.
Seasons
I have spent, small
Looking up to the idea of adult
Only for the acridity of expectation
To bruise the knuckles
Like a root.
The utensils to do dirty work
After all
Look beautiful
Hung like streamlined game
Ripening with shine in the sick suburban sun
The kitchen’s fruit
Each one has a name
And I
Have one -
Which bites my mouth as I begin to eat
Handfuls of raw onion, crave
For the confirmatory burn of defiance,
The anticipation of the others face
Entering the kitchen, the clatter on tiles
Of her heels she wants to make her ‘woman’
And yet seeing the girl crouched by the side
The onions
Ringing her as ‘mother’
Making her undone.
