The Onion

Cut an onion down, but don’t
touch the centrepiece

we are all stumbling, trying
hard to find our eyes

they don’t tell you losing’s
not the same as able to be found

peel skin from skin; the core
will sting, like blue-skin swatters

leave! leave! i never want to see
you again! she shouts to the mirror

blindly, swaying, kitchen knife
in one hand and her fingers in the other.

The onion rolls, like a cradle,
waiting for its victim.

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