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.